BRPD - Big Rok Polees Departmunt
by Tau22
Summary: Sometimes, an ork craves to be un-orky. And sometimes, someone un-orky wants to behave a little bit too orky. On the Big Rok, both of these sides clash. And it's up to the BRPD to maintain something that very distantly resembles order. If you squint a little.
1. Prologuez

The Big Rok. The stuff of legends among many boyz of the galaxy. Not really a rok anymore, but a massive space hulk, cruising through the stars, ramming into anything in its path, incorporating it into its ever-growing whole. Its oldest inhabitants, as the name could imply, were orkz.

Not just any orkz, though. Blood Axes, they had once been, considered extra un-orky even among their own kind. Willing to actually coexist in one place, as long some fighting broke out now and then. Well, more like every day. They had originally wanted to search for a little planet to call home, before a then-unnamed hulk materialised from the warp and rammed right into their rok.

The orkz spilled into this unexplored area and, other than a few oversized bugs, found it to be miraculously abandoned, some parts of it even overgrown with plant life. It was then that Balrog, their warboss at the time, declared the area 'orky enuff' and crowned himself the first Rok Boss. He died two days afterwards when a successor shot his head off, but that is another tale.

Big Rok proved to be marvelous home, with abundant resources, forgotten technology for the meks to toy with and enough warp-blessed ground to reproduce. And since it seemed to have a habit of ramming into ships, new visitors also came around now and then. Most of them were chopped to pieces afterwards, but that's just how it goes when you deal with orks.

Today, many splinter groups form the populace of the Big Rok. Gangs, factions and just plain old troublesome boyz often cause trouble. But, with Blood Axe blood coursing through their veins, there was a need for at least a certain level of discipline. And so, they were created.

Chosen from the best, the strangest, or the willing. The greatest, and only, force dedicated to the preservation of a minimum level of civility among orks, but only during peace time. They are the defenders of just teef distribution and red paint quality assurance. They are the orkiest of the un-orky.

They are...

Da' Big Rok Polees Departmunt. And dey'z gunna' smash ya' if ya' cause trouble, ya' git.


	2. Day in da' Job

**Day in da' Job**

The scene was gruesome, to say the least. Body parts everywhere, not necessarily close to their former owners. Dozens of bullet holes, a forgotten, bloody choppa'. Even a few jugs of fungus beer, unceremoniously spilled onto the ground. Disgraceful. A lesser man would have barfed on the spot. Not an ork, though.

Most certainly not an ork like Gorasho Pain. He stood above his colleagues, as befitted any self-respecting nob, clad in a suit equal parts uniform and battle armour, all pleasant navy blue. Many items decorated his belt, mostly trinkets and baubles, but also his trusty twin-linked shoota' and a strange, curved, un-orky dagger. A fashionable hat decorated his head, looted from an unfortunate commissar, held together in places by fabrics of various colours. His healthy eye scanned the area, along with a cybork one. A gift from the departmunt's mek, after a particularly unlucky firefight.

Finally, he found who he was looking for and screamed:

"Oy, dok!"

The considerably smaller, and considerably more deranged, greenskin turned around and waved at the nob with an arm that wasn't his:

"Ah, kaptin! Perfect timin'! I jus' got done choppin' 'em... err, choppin' 'em more, I mean."

"Gud. An' wot ya' found out?"

The dok's grin was almost devilish:

"Most were chopped ta' deff. Otherz got shot up. Dat'z about it."

"Gud work. Ya' can go now."

With a nod, the ork ran off, a few limbs sticking out of his bag. Gorasho continued with his procedures:

"Kadet Snogrot, report!"

Snogrot was, at first sight, a typical ork. Large, green and dumb-looking. However, he possessed a mean kunning. A kunning the kaptin had come to rely on:

"Reportin', kaptin! Alright, all dese dead 'unz," he motioned at the bodies or what remained, "be Bluddspittaz. Except da' onez in da' corna' dere, deyz be Rokeataz."

"Gangz dese dayz..."

"I know kaptin. We'z also found," he started picking things out of a bag labelled 'Importunt stuffz', the first a small paper, with a large blue 'A LOT' written on it, "dis letta', from the Rokeataz, sayin' 'ow much they 'ate da' Bluddspitaz," next, a strange looking, modified rokkit launcha', "a Rokeataz kustom flinga'-shoota'," and finally... a pie, "and dis squiq pie. Looks delico... delica... tasty, kaptin."

"Gud work," the kaptin spoke between bites, "wot can we deduce from dis, kadet Snogrot?"

"Well, I fink da' Rokeataz shot 'em up, kaptin."

"Youz may be right. And in dat case, we should stop by deir gang 'ouse and," with the click of a button, a single sunglass extended from the cybork eye, over the healthy one, "rok deir world."

* * *

The assembled polees orks were a mixed bunch. Most were just wearing whatever blue garments they had found lying about, others actually had something vaguely resembling a standardised uniform. However, on the front line, the line closest to the surrounded building, stood a group of 'ard boyz, more than ready to bust some skulls. And walls, if need-be.

The structure itself was a dime-a-dozen. Built mostly from metal plates and whatever else could be found on the gigantic space hulk, with one of its sides propped against the hulk's own walls. Two floors, both filled with angry Rokeataz, waving their shootaz and choppaz at the blue force.

Gorasho stood right behind the armoured shocktroops, with Snogrot at his side. With a decidedly orky speaker in his hands, he shouted at the Rokeataz:

"Listen up, ya' squigbrainz! Youz shot up sum a' dem Bluddspitaz durin' peace time. Da boss don't like dat! I gave ya one chance ta' just give up! Odawise, I'z gunna' be forced ta'-"

At that moment, a gunshot sounded and a bullet pierced right through the kaptin's hat. As it fell to the ground, the other polees orks' eyes grew wide.

"Mork 'ave mercy," came from one of the 'ard ones.

Gorasho straightened himself, crushed the speaker in his hands and, at the top of his lungs, screamed:

"Bring me a rokkit!"

As a few grot assistants scurried away, Snogrot interjected:

"Ain't dat against regulatiunz, kaptin?"

"Kadet Snogrot, repeat ta' me regulatiun Z."

"Ummm... uhhh... Oh! If dey touch me hat, all oda' regulatiunz can go zog demselvez!"

"Very gud! I promote ya' ta' senior kadet!"

"Wot dat mean, kaptin?"

"I get ta' call ya senior kadet."

"Ooooh, I likez dat!"

The gretchin returned, barely lifting the weapon even with their combined strength:

"Kaptin! Yer rokkit!"

"Ah, fankz," he casually aimed the launcha' with one hand, as the Rokeataz ran for cover. The projectile blew a massive hole in one of the walls and filled the area with smoke. The kaptin looked at his assembled force, "well, wot ya waitin' for?! Chop 'em ta' bitz!"

With an earthshaking battlecry, the orks charged to battle, with the 'ard boyz soaking up most incoming fire. Gorasho almost teared up, watching such a magnificent display. Body parts occasionally flew out from the smoke, most probably belonging to the Rokeataz. But then, an 'ard boy's helmet suddenly landed on the ground, complete with the head.

A massive ork charged out from the smoke, his right arm replaced with a mighty power klaw, while the other clenched a similarly-sized choppa'. On his back, the nob carried the Rokeataz banner, a set of crudely drawn teeth chomping down on, predictably, a rock. Rokus Deffsnip never gave up without a fight.

While Snogrot and the assistants panicked, Gorasho guffawed loudly and reached for an item on his back. From an oversized sheath, emerged a similarly oversized weapon. Its hilt was finely cut, its blades polished to a mirror shine. With the click of a button, the mighty chain-choppa' whirred to life, loud as a trukk. Bessy was ready to cut through anything in her path.

Kaptin' and gang boss met mid-charge. The klaw tried to grab and tear, but the kaptin was too fast and dodged to the side, while the choppa' met with its superior cousin. The lesser weapon resisted for a few seconds, but was swept aside. Bessy cut right through what little armour the other nob had and severed his left arm.

Rokus roared and attacked with renewed frenzy, his klaw always coming within inches of the dodging kaptin. With each strike, the one-armed ork grew slower and slower, until Gorasho finally struck back with another precise blow, severing the other limb, as well.

Deffsnip fell to his knees as the kaptin reached for his shoota'. He aimed at the downed ork's head and spoke:

"Lemme' give ya' an 'and."

"Oh, zog you."

With two pulls of the trigger, since the first shot only took off part of the jaw, the fight was over. Any leftovers were gathered up and sent to the dok, much to his unending glee, while the polees orks slowly dispersed to their homes, or to various taverns which littered the hulk's insides. Gorasho had similar plans to the latter group's, along with the ever-trustworthy senior kadet Snogrot.

* * *

"Dat waz impressive, kaptin." he blurted out as their buggy almost hit a small pile of forgotten body parts.

"Da' rokkit or da' fight?"

"Bof, actually."

"Fankz, Snogrot."

They rode past several districts, orky or otherwise, before they reached Gorasho's establishment of choice. Joe's.

A remarkable building, if only because of the massive glowing sign right above the entrance. Being friends with a few meks always came in handy. A place where the service was quick, the fungus beer was just cool enough, the squiq pie just salty enough. A place where a good fight was just a few insults away at any time. A paradise for any self-respecting ork.

They entered and waved at a few other well-known patrons, before taking a seat right at the bar. Joe, the owner, was with them in seconds, his usual black hair-squiq looking even more fabulous than ordinarily:

"Ah, good evenin', kaptin! And Snogrot, 'course."

"Evenin', Joe."

"Da' usual, I bet?"

"Dat would be great."

And so, with a clash of jugs and massive gulps of fungus beer, another day ended for the members of the Big Rok Polees Departmunt.


	3. Orkz a' Hazard

**Orkz a' Hazard**

Big Rok was a peculiar place, no doubt about it. Untold numbers of ships, fused together, only to then be repurposed by their inhabitants. Hollowed out, often stripped to the bare minimum of their former selves, only to be filled again by questionable structures. Of course, some had been left mostly intact, like the massive warpal gardens, partly because no one could be bothered to eradicate plants that could fight back.

And, of course, a place can't be orky enough if you don't have enough space for a buggy to roar through. Roads, as crude as they were, existed and had to be protected from any sort of freebootin' gits.

Which was exactly what their three buggies were doing, barely concealed among the city's buildings, painted red, in contrast with the polees orks' uniforms. The kaptin's hat had a new battle scar that was red, though. Gorasho was getting a bit restless. Waiting always did that to any ork, though, true Blood Axes had a certain resistance to such symptoms. But it was taking just too long.

And then, he could suddenly hear it. The howling of several engines, getting louder with every passing second.

"Kode Squiq," Snogrot, in the only passenger seat, spoke into their 'talky-majig', as the mek had called it, "ready yer enginez."

"Gotz it!" came from the other side.

In moments, they rode past. Several bikes, their engines roaring and their riders taking shots at random buildings. The first among them had a banner attached to the seat, depicting something between a tank and a good old killy dredd. The Mechanatorz had kept to remote roads, before most of their gang left to join bigger ones. With only a handful left, they had decided to have a little fun. Mainly by riding faster than anyone else. Gorasho was not one to give up, though.

The three buggies moved out of their spots and chased after the bikers. Pedestrians dodged aside in terror, empty boxes were smashed, fruit vendors got flattened. Yet with every passing moments, the Mechanatorz moved further and further away, their custom vehicles just too fast for the polees.

A fateful sharp turn. One of the kadets didn't make it and rammed right through a building, with the other two forced to stop. Gorasho personally clobbered the git over the head and then watched the motorised gang disappear beyond another turn.

"Dat'z da fourf time, kaptin."

"I'z know 'ow ta' count, Snogrot."

"Deyz jus' too fast, kaptin. Our buggiez jus' ain't enuff."

"Maybe," he scratched his scalp, "which meanz... we need a betta' buggy."

"Kan't we make bikez of our own, kaptin?"

"No. Buggiez be more comfy. We need ta' go see da' mek."

"Are ya' sure dat'z a gud idea, kaptin?"

"It'z da' best one we 'ave. Come on. And you gitz," he turned to the other buggy crews, "clean dis place up! I want it as shiny as me choppa' when I come fer inspection dis evenin'."

* * *

The departmunt's mek was considered a bit weird. Well, a little bonkers. Well, crazy, even by ork standards. In truth, he just loved experimenting with everything, as his work table clearly illustrated. Bombs strapped to bombs, which were strapped to rokkits. Shootas that shot shootas that shot grots. Mechanical toys for sporelings, lethal in unexpected ways, like say, having a bite function, or maybe even a hidden choppa' or two. A quadruple burna', which, for all intents and purposes, was pretty damn awesome.

The owner of such a peculiar collection was a fairly large ork, his face covered with countess burn marks and cuts, many from experiments actually considered successful. His right arm was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a freakishly complicated set of tools, most of them connected directly to his spine via sturdy-looking cables. As he tinkered, one after another, they pushed out and retracted themselves, performing whatever questionable experimenting their owner had in mind. With a glance over to the entrance, the mek welcomed him in:

"Kaptin! Come in, I'z almost done wif dis," a large number of gun barrels lay on his table, crudely strapped to a single handle and trigger, "still need ta' figure out where I put da' bulletz, though."

Gorasho navigated the workshop, making sure not to step on any of the parts or spare tools on the floor:

"Tekbrain, Iz need a new buggy."

The other's eyes almost literally lit up:

"Ooooh, I lovez makin' dose. Wot ya need? Real killy, real 'ard or real speedy?"

"All three. Iz need ta' catch and shoot sum squigbrainz on bikez."

"Yer askin' fer sum insanity dere, kaptin. Youz can't 'ave all three!"

Gorasho smirked:

"Well, if ya can't do it, Iz guess I'z gunna' have ta' ask anoda' mek."

"Can't do it?! Why I oughta'," a small drill extended from the tool-arm, "come to da' garage tomorrow! Iz gunna' make da' bestest buggy youz eva' seen!"

"Dere'z da' Tekbrain Iz know!"

* * *

Snogrot watched as the mek approached the small podium in the departmunt's garage. Their newest buggy rested beneath a multi-coloured piece of cloth, hidden from all unworthy eyes. Tekbrain grabbed hold of the cloth with the biggest smirk an ork could muster.

He unveiled it and several jaws dropped. Reinforced metal plating. A ram fashioned into the likeness of Mork. Or was that Gork? No one could tell, but it was orky. A mounted gun with several barrels. Highest quality, bright red paintjob. Three comfy seats, complete with legally acquired cushions.

Gorasho snapped out of a momentary daydream, where he proposed love to the buggy and asked:

"Wait, why'z dere three seatz?"

"Well, someone needz ta' shoot da' shoota', right? Iz fixed da' bullet problem, too. Put 'em all in da' back."

"Wez need a driva', den."

"I'z yer driva', kaptin."

"Wot?!"

"Iz ain't lettin' anyone wreck dis buggy. Unlezz it'z me. Don't worry," a small crab-like claw extended from the tool-arm, "I'z got a grabby fing!"

"Eh, fine. Iz need dat buggy. Senior kadet Snogrot!"

The smaller ork was right there between them:

"Yeh, kaptin?"

"Youz can aim, right?"

"Iz fink, kaptin."

"Youz gunna' 'ave sum fun, den."

* * *

He was getting restless again. The big, red, shiny button wasn't helping matters. Smacked right in the middle of the controls, it was like a beacon to any remotely sane creature. It called out to him in a voice which sounded like a chain-choppa'. It somehow smelled like squiq pie. It was irresistible.

"Tekbrain, wot dat do?"

"Dat'z a secret. Youz may get ta' use it today. Now, handz away!"

With a childish grump, Gorasho turned towards Snogrot, safely strapped in his elevated seat, a pair of blue googles over his eyes. Both of his hands were on the turret, his trigger fingers visibly itchy.

"Ready, Snogrot?"

"Yeh, kaptin'! We'z gunna' shoot 'em up gud!"

"Dat we are."

There it was again, the howling of five engines. The Mechanatorz were especially rowdy on that day, adding brain-dead screaming, anti-Gorkamorkism and extremely fast speeding along to their list of offences. And Gorasho had had just about enough of it. As soon as they rode past, he yelled out:

"Afta' dem!"

Tekbrain rammed his foot onto the gas pedal. All three were pushed into their comfy seats as the buggy blasted off. For once, the bikes weren't escaping. In fact, second by second, they were gaining on the squigbrains. Snogrot finally opened fire, filling the air with munitions of several sizes.

The last biker was the first to receive an unhealthy dose of rounds, rammed into the nearest lamp post, before getting flung into the air and landing on a conveniently placed gretchin. Another few salvos resulted in a obliterated rear wheel. As the bike spun out of control, their buggy rammed right into it, ramming it in half, while the driver ended up in even more pieces.

A clicking sound came from above. Snogrot shouted down at the rest of the crew:

"Tekbrain! Youz gotta' 'ave more bulletz if ya want dis many shootin' stuffz!"

"Noted. Wot now?!"

Gorasho joined in:

"Drive me closa'! From da' left!"

"Aye, aye, kaptin!"

The two remaining lackeys were driving side-to-side. When their buggy suddenly came closer from the left, the kaptin decided to take advantage of their predicament.

"Oy, ya grot," as the biker turned around in shock, Gorasho delivered a mighty blow with Bessy. The ork fell onto the steering and rammed right into his friend. They vanished in a fiery explosion, far behind the speeding trio, "dat'z wot Iz call drivin' on da' edge."

Their final target, riding around with a few extra exhausts and his clan's banner, turned around and laughed extremely loudly, before flicking a few switches. Fire suddenly started spewing from his exhausts and his speed increased. Not even the new buggy could keep up. With the biker's laughter still audible, Tekbrain shouted:

"Oh, dat'z 'ow 'e wantz ta' play? Kaptin!"

"Yeh?"

"Da red button! Press it!"

Music to his ears. Like a reunion with a long-lost love.

"Really?"

"Yeh! Wez could go boom, but art requirez sacrificez."

His fist smashed down on it like the hammer of an angry god. Hidden compartments in the buggy's frames opened up and column after column of tiny rockets slid out, crudely wired together. A hidden compartment also opened right below the button and contained yet another big, red, shiny temptation. This one was labelled with 'Are ya' sure?'.

"Hold onto yer teef!" the mek yelled, before smashing that one, as well. Gorasho also held onto his hat.

The acceleration threatened to push them through their comfy seats. Their surroundings became a blur, their target seemed to be slowing down. The kaptin looked to the right as they were passing, noting the biker's downright horrified expression, swiftly reached out and grabbed him by the jacket. The ork was lifted, his unmanned vehicle soon crashing into a nearby building.

Suddenly, they hit a bump, probably created by some other band of freebootin' gits. All four yelled at the top of their lungs, as the buggy suddenly turned skyward, passing over several rows of buildings. Their auxiliary thrusters suddenly started dying, one after another. Tekbrain shouted even louder:

"We'z gotta' lose sum weight!"

"Will it 'elp?!"

"No!"

The kaptin' still instinctively let go and immediately looked down. Such a nice set of coincidences, they were flying directly above Da' Big Grinda'. The biggest the squiq processing plant had, in fact. As the biker leader disappeared within its maw, the kaptin' commented, mostly to himself, since his companions were still busy screaming:

"He neva' could stand da' everyday grind."

They impacted the ground with the force of a small comet, creating a small crater in the middle of a 'No ridin', gitz' zone. Several unfortunate gretchin were turned to paste during the encounter. The three polees orks rose from what remained of their buggy relatively unscathed, to a loud clapping from surrounding boyz. While waving and bowing slightly, Gorasho spoke:

"Tekbrain?"

"Yeh, kaptin'?"

"Remind me ta' give ya a teef bonuz dis monf. Dat waz da' bestest ride a' me life."

"You'z too kind, kaptin'!"

* * *

That night, all three of them ventured to Joe's, though, in a marginally less awesome buggy. On the way, they noticed the boyz were doing their job, licking the morning's crash site clean. Literally.

When they finally entered, the patrons were already discussing the day's portion of squiq pie. They all agreed it tasted a bit 'funky', but couldn't agree on whether it was 'funky gud' or 'funky bad'. Naturally, a fight broke out, as soon the trio sat behind the bar. An unfortunate ork suddenly flew above their heads. Joe casually dodged to the side, combed his squiq-wig and spoke:

"Da usual, kaptin' and boyz?"

"Iz fink we'z gunna' skip da' pie today, Joe. Jus' sum beer."

"Well, about dat..."


	4. Severin' in da' Sewa'

**Severin' in da' Sewa'**

Big Rok Sewaz. A place loved only by the parasitic or business-minded, infested with everything from rats, to giant spiders, to squigators. However, if you needed to get merchandise from one point to another, without having to worry about boyz trying to loot half of your shipment, there was no better way than the sewers, which had naturally been born from no-longer functioning fuel lines.

Gorasho growled at their squad, a mixed bunch of regular polees orks, sniffin' squiqs and a trio of couriers from the Sewer Corps, the largest and most successful shipping company on the Big Rok, partly because they could be trusted not to loot half of the shipment. They were ahead of the main group, their specialised armours fully-sealed, due to a lack of natural orky resistance.

"So, captain," Johnson, the leader in red armour, "how do you like our daily routine?"

"Iz could imagine a betta' way ta' spend me day, Iz think."

"I was like that on my first shift, too. But the place grows on you. Sometimes literally."

"Say no more," the kaptin turned his head around, "senior kadet Snogrot!"

Snogrot was an honorary member of the squiq squad, partly because the other handler had been eaten the day before. His squiq was of the aggressive attack variety, completely black and sporting a mean set of teeth.

"Yeh, boss?" he answered, the squiq viewing the surroundings from the top of his scalp.

"Wot ya doin' ta' dat squiq? Put it down."

"But it likez sittin' dere, kaptin'! It likez me."

"Fer dinna', maybe."

"Oh, lil' Ugu would neva' do dat!"

The squiq seemed to nod, its tongue licking its lower jaw.

"Eh, woteva'," he turned back to the couriers, "we close yet?"

"Just a few more corners, captain."

An hour later, they finally reached their destination, where a part of the fuel lines had been fused into a crossroad. The group stopped and Johnson spoke:

"This is where we lost contact with Joe's courier. We should search the area for any-," a nudge to the side and a pointing finger, "what is it, Graves, I hate being in- oh," not too far from them, there was a large hole in the fuel lines, just above the flowing mixture around their feet, "well, there's our problem."

"Wasn't here two days ago, I can vouch for that."

They approached the entrance, squiqs and guns first. The sniffin' squiqs caught wind of something and were reluctant to approach the door. Johnson turned to the biggest ork:

"You have any flamers, captain?"

"Wot?"

"Dat meanz burnaz, kaptin."

"Fankz, Snogrot. Yeh, we 'ave one."

"Good. As my father used to say, always bet on fire."

"Yer daddy was a smart git."

"That he was. After you, captain."

* * *

The tunnel was just large enough for them to pass in pairs and headed downwards, through both metal and rock. No other entrances or pathways, just one long hallway. The further in they went, the more the squiqs wanted to run, except for Ugu, who remained unfazed. After a few minutes, the walls then became unnatural, covered with some sort of slimy, squishy material.

"Well, that's just great," Johnson commented.

"Yeh. Dis 'ere be bug land. Gobby, keep dat burna' ready."

"Got it, kaptin."

Snogrot tilted his head slightly upwards, trying not to make Ugu fall:

"Bug boyz, kaptin? But Iz fought we'z taken care a' dose. Yearz ago."

"Seemz like wez missed sum. Keep yer eyez open."

The tunnel finally came to an end. The chamber beyond did not seem any more inviting. Expansive and dark, yet seemingly empty. That could only mean there was an ambush waiting. There was always an ambush waiting. Shootas, sluggas and choppas clenched tightly, they took step after step inside, forming a circle.

Mid-way into the room, growls sounded. The horde appeared from hidden paths in the darkness, a throng of rather small, multi-limbed beasts and gnashing mouths.

"Zog dem up!" came the kaptin's orders.

Shots lit up the darkness, followed by a miniature sun as Gobby unleashed hell. The squigs went into an utter panic and attempted to flee, but most met their end within the horde. The creatures leapt, even shot strange projectiles. A couple of the polees orks fell, prompting Gorasho to charge into the fray in earnest. Bessy proved to be immensely effective, if only because she was as big as her victims.

The onslaught paused, the creatures retreating into the darkness. Gorasho counted the loses. Four orks, five squiqs and an unnamed courier, the poor sod. Seven left, including their last squiq. Not an ideal count, to be sure.

The second wave was announced by a horrific roar. An abomination appeared, several feet taller than even Gorasho, flanked on all sides by nob-sized warriors. Flame was unleashed, but the bio-tank didn't even seem to notice, its massive talons slicing poor old Gobby in two. While the rest of the group contemplated retreat, the bravest among them prepared to strike. After making sure he had good footing, he leapt up at the beast, aiming right at its monstrous face.

As the black squiq's razor-sharp teeth bit down, the bio-tank roared in agony and went into a rampage, trying to throw little Ugu off. It twisted and turned, its tail smashing into its allies, who were sent flying in every direction. Finally, blinded as it was, it slammed head first into a wall, Ugu managing to let go at the last second.

The rest of the squad approached what was now a carcass, the little squiq standing triumphantly on its back. Snogrot spoke up:

"Told ya 'e was gud. Can Iz keep 'im?"

"Only if ya promise ta' take good care a' 'im."

"Yeh, kaptin, Iz swear!"

"Very gud, den. Now, time ta' go get more boyz and burn dis place up."

Just then, they noticed one of the small bug boyz, walking slowly towards them, only to stop a few feet away. It growled at them and Ugu jumped off his trophy, only to growl right back. They all watched the exchange, Snogrot more intensely than the rest.

Ugu then turned to his companions and emitted another such set of sounds. Snogrot spoke up:

"Deyz don't wanna' fight."

"Wot? 'Ow ya' know dat?"

"Well, kaptin, Ugu said so."

"And 'ow ya' know dat?"

"Iz fink I'z on da' same spirituul level as he, kaptin."

"Well, dat'z a load a' squiqcrap."

The two critters had been talking further in the meantime. Snogrot translated once more:

"Dey'z sorry 'bout da' boyz here and da couria'. Deyz like funguz beer," another set of squeaks and yelps, "deyz been alone for long, da' Big Teef no longa' talkz to 'em," one final squeal, "deyz wanna' stay, kaptin."

"Iz dat so? Iz respect anyone dat drinkz gud beer. But youz gunna' 'ave ta' ask da boss, bug boy. Tell 'im dat."

Ugu turned again to his tiny friend, who, after a few seconds, nodded quickly three times.

* * *

Boss Nignub was a record-breaker. Always had to have the biggest guns, the most teef, the shiniest choppa'. His remarkable, even unthinkable rule of over three months would also have been something for Big Rok history books, if anyone could actually be bothered to write them. Possessing a mean kunning, and an even meaner cybork arm-shoota', he always got what he wanted. Including hats.

His love for headwear was well-known, especially because of the blue top hat he wore at all times, larger than a human head. Everyone at the meeting had a hat, really. Gorasho had his own, while Snogrot and the two tiny diplomats each received a complimentary one.

Many points were in the bug boys' favour. They could be stompy, but also tiny, killy, but also kunning. Someone could finally serve as companions for the couriers in the sewers, increasing the safety of shipments. They had quality teef. They really, really liked fungus beer.

On the other hand, their whole organic hive thing could really ruin the aesthethic unity of Big Rok's cold, metal, rarely-painted buildings. And really, that was the only downside any ork could come up with.

The little bug had to keep adjusting his hat with his tiny scything talons to keep it from engulfing his head. Nignub was deep in thought, weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Finally, he stirred and spoke, in a deep voice:

"Big Rok be a place unseen in da' starz. Wez welcome any visitorz willin' ta' work togetha' wif us orkz an' tolerate da' small incidentz of total war dat come with our orky naturez. Youz may keep yer place in da' sewaz, as long as ya' help uz out with stuff and don't muck about. Tell 'im dat."

It took the squiq a while, but the other tiny diplomat soon emitted a squeal of joy.

* * *

That evening, at Joe's, four figures entered, two diplomats and two polees orks. Along with the regular assortment of orks, tyranid warriors and others of their kin were taking big gulps from their jugs.

Joe's squig-wig looked a bit messy, probably from all the commotion:

"Ah, kaptin an' diplomateyz. Gud businezz today, though, dese boyz need ta' learn some propa' talkin'. Iz can't undastand a word dey'z sayin'."

"Dat'll come wif time, Joe. Four jugs a' beer an' squiq pie," Ugu looked over at him, "oh, sorry. Three squig pies and a gretchin stew."

"Comin' right up."

Gorasho looked at the surrounding commotion once more:

"Only on Big Rok."

"You got dat right, kaptin."


	5. Into da' Warpzone

**Into da' Warpzone**

Big Rok was, for all intents and purposes, your regular, everyday space hulk. And as such, it did things any self-respecting flying junkyard would. Mostly ram into anything in its path, but sometimes, it would travel. Travel vast distances in seemingly random amounts of time. Yes, just like many of its kin, the Warp itself would sometimes just gobble it up, only to spit it out elsewhere.

And so, its inhabitants would sometimes find themselves in the Warpzone, where normal things did not happen very often.

The BRPD headquarters was under siege. By vast amounts of paperwork, after an especially troublesome week. While most of the boyz were enjoying their well-earned breaks, a select few stayed behind to make sure everything was in order. They were also fortunate, though, for the circumstances brought in a few extra... well, not hands, per se.

Snogrot, the supervisor over the entire operation, placed another pile of paperwork onto a table. This batch contained complaints about property damage from idealists, complaints about assorted injuries, death threats from those already gunned down and letters containing something their writers had mistaken for a dialect. With a grin, he turned to one of his temporary helpers:

"More stuff fer ya', Yelly," a harmless little nickname, it was.

The daemon screeched loudly, flapped its almost-cosmetic wings and then clumsily bit into the pile, pulling the material into its maw. At another table, a multi-limbed creature spewed fire at a similarly-sized pile and swept the ash onto the floor using some of its tails. A small squad of gaunts, equipped with tiny brooms and bags, appeared shortly afterwards to clean it all up. Like some sort of malfunctioning, but well-oiled machine. Almost brought a tear to his eye.

"Ringo, ya' finished wif dem holes?"

The monstrous snake of a tyranid looked up from its table, nodding. Snogrot came closer, saw that the bite marks were in completely random places on each paper, and spoke:

"Close enuff. Gud job." which earned him a monstrous purr.

After throwing the newly collected pile into a random drawer in a random table, he looked out the window, at the training yard. Half of it had been repurposed into a school for the polees, or any other inhabitant with an interest in learning languages. Since the locals couldn't possibly speak in the same dialect as the bug boyz, knowing both was the only way to properly coexist. A group of eye-catching, purple-skinned ladies watched the proceedings from a bench, giggling and pointing at gaunt students.

Something tugged on his leg. A brief look downwards revealed Ugu, clutching a very messy, even bloodied envelope:

"Wot ya' got dere," he retrieved it, wiped off the slobber on Yelly's back, opened it up and, after a bit of reading, he looked back at the squiq, "where'd ya get dis?"

"I brought it," came a borderline seductive female voice.

He looked up to see another daemonette, holding one of the gaunts and scratching its belly. Little guy seemed to be enjoying it a lot, too:

"Oy, put down me' worka'!"

"Oh, sorry," she put him down, much to his disappointment, "they're just so cute! Anyway, I hope that helps you."

"Oh, yeh, real gud info. But where'd ya get it?"

"Oh, robbed one of them. We do like annoying them from time to time, you know," she brushed through her green hair with her crab-like claw, "anyway, I'm gonna' go back to the yard. Their squeaking is adorable."

"Okay. Fankz," he immediately turned to the squiq, "Ugu, we gotta' find da' kaptin!"

A bark-like growl was all the confirmation he needed.

* * *

Joe's was even more full than usual, if only because of the competition. Dozens of figures, green, red and otherwise, huddled around a few tables, cheering their favoured warriors on. A khornate daemon roared in fury as it slammed yet another arm against the table, snapping it off in the process. Its green, and former, owner tried to insert a laughter into his agonising screams, with mixed results.

Arm wrestling was no mere sport. It was an art, with massive history on the Big Rok. Entire generations of sporelings dreamt of maybe, one day, having a shot at the championship title, an award second only to the boss' throne itself. Many heroes were noted in the annals, all either khornate or orkish, though, the inclusion of tyranids could very well bring an end to their streaks. Barathul the Great Master of Long-Named Arm Crushing, Zugzug Armsnappa', Milenius the Breaker of Palms, Gobby da' Gobbynator, only recently deceased. Such famous names, some easier to pronounce than others and therefore mentioned more often.

Gorasho sat at the bar and watched a pair of daemonettes cheer around the newest victor. Such good, wholesome, ork-friendly fun. Brought a tear to his eye. With a satisfied grunt, an empty jug slammed down onto the bar, forcing Gorasho to look to the left:

"Man, this stuff is great," her tentacular hair was practically dancing from excitement, "you say it's made of fungus?"

"Yeh. Only da' best qualitey 'ere at Joe'z."

"I must agree wholeheartedly," the mutated mass was remarkably contained, somehow managing to maintain a humanoid form. The tentacles sprouting from its back, along with a single huge, green eye, belied its true nature. The similarly huge monocle and top hat made up for it, though, "a wonderful beverage. May we have some more?"

"Comin' right up," said Joe with boundless enthusiasm. Daemon teef were of high quality, after all.

"And for the lady."

"Got it."

The daemonette giggled, her tail waggling in the air:

"You're spoiling me, Malmortus."

"And it is a pleasure. So, captain," the single eye turned back to Gorasho, "how has the war on civil revolt been going?"

The kaptin took a gulp from his own jug, before answering:

"Ah, ya' know. Blown up warehouse 'ere, chopped up gitz dere. Da' bug boyz are makin' it much easia' dese dayz, though."

"Sounds splendid. I bet they still wouldn't manage a thing without you, though."

"I'z usually 'umble, but no. Most of 'em be squigbrainz, still."

Daemonette and... thing laughed together, just as two figures stormed into the bar, screaming:

"Kaptin, kaptin!"

He turned around to see a boy and his squig:

"Wot iz it, senior kadet Snogrot?"

"We'z got problemz, kaptin! I'z got sum info!"

"I see," he turned back to his drinking buddies, "I gotta' go, sorry. Duty callz and stuffz. Youz two 'ave fun."

Malmortus watched the trio leave:

"A shame," he turned back to her, "I must say, however, you look even more marvelous than usual today, Mirana."

Her talons scraped along the bar:

"You don't look too bad yourself, good sir."

* * *

"Ya' sure all dis is right? It could be a joke."

"Kaptin, I'z sure! Dey even put their picture fingy on da' papa'."

A daemonic motorcycle roared past them, its rider's skull on fire as he screamed about consuming illegal substances. They did not seem to notice.

"Dat'z true. Okay, so we'z sure. We gotta' round up da' boyz, den. And bring 'em to da' goody boy district, get some of dem, too. Now dat Iz fink about dis, dis could be fun."

"Yeh, kaptin. Let'z go, den."

In their rush, they left the letter behind and it fell to the ground, a group of curious grots mustered the courage to approach and, after a bit of bickering, the oldest one was chosen as the reader. If only because he could actually read.

"You stupid sons of Tzeentch. We're gonna' get in there and smash them up, to make up for our humiliating failure from last time! YOU HEAR ME, IDIO-," part of the letter was covered in blood, unreadable, "the portal shall open to their Tau district, so that we can take out their ranged superiority! We will tear them apart, as my name is Gugulash, the Butcher of Bovinus, Enslaver of Generis, Reddener of the Dunes!"

Finally, at the bottom, was a golden maw on a crimson background, ready to devour an entire planet.

As soon as he finished reading, they were all flattened by the daemonic rider, who returned for another go, screaming about roadkill.

* * *

The Tau district was quiet, unreasonably so. Not a single philosopher walked the streets, talking of the true nature of the Greater Good, while enduring constant mocking laughter from nearby polees personnel. Not a single Fire Warrior was trying to impress ladies with his aim, or the state of his rifle. Not a single being was in sight when the portal was forcefully torn open.

Band after band of figures in crimson armour charged through, armed mostly with melee weaponry, a select few carrying flamers. They smashed a few nearby walls and stands, before devolving into a mass of confused idiots, from their previous state of focused idiots. One last figure stepped through the portal before it closed, taller than the rest of his kin, his armour a defiled terminator suit. One of the berserkers shouted at him:

"There is nobody here, damnit!"

"Shut up, you useless sack of filth, and look harder!"

"I think this whole thing is a load of juggernaut!" came another voice.

"I'll shove such down your throat if you don't shut up! Now search!"

"Ya' lookin' fer me, squigbrain?!"

The leader looked up, to see an ork kaptin suddenly standing in the middle of a street, his hat bearing more scars than before.

"You idiots, he's right there! Kill! Maim! Burn!"

As the khornates let out a battle cry, Gorasho grinned and shouted back:

"Iz couldn't agree more!"

Without warning, the street behind the fallen marines burst open, revealing a squad of tyranid warriors, who immediately opened fire with their mighty venom cannons. Orks of all shapes and armour class spewed from the upper floors of surrounding buildings and jumped down onto street level, some clumsily enough to get flattened by the next wave. Several Shas'la took aim from the upper balconies and shot with pinpoint accuracy. A black squiq was chasing a trio of enemies in a circle.

The khornate leader did not particularly care, his mind was focused on a single thing, the chain choppa'-wielding nob charging right at him. His power fist roared to life and he tried to punch the enemy in two. Gorasho dodged only narrowly and brought down his own weapon. Bessy only scraped along the suit's surface.

"Upgradez, Gug?"

"Oh, indeed. And my name is-," a powerful kick made the terminator stumble backwards. The suit's second power fist was activated, "I will crush you!"

"Iz don't fink so," another narrow dodge, "Gug."

"You will respect my name and titles!"

The terminator grew even more furious. Yet even as the rest of his warband was slowly whittled down, no shot could scratch him through his durable shell. And the dodges were becoming rather dangerous.

He ducked under a sloppy right hook and rammed into the similarly-sized marine with full force, sending him back by a good few feet. The kaptin shouted:

"Tekbrain! Goooo!"

The mek's scream of childish joy could be heard just before his beemy deffgun cut a path through the air and, for that matter, the terminator suit. The hole wasn't the biggest one, but large enough for their plan.

"Aaaargghh! I will rend you limb from limb!"

"Yer upgradez be dumb."

"Kaptin, catch!"

He instinctively grabbed the falling object and gave Snogrot a thumbs up. Gugulash charged once more, his feet creating small craters in the ground. His blows were even faster, yet after a few dozen, an opening appeared. Sidestepping, Gorasho took his new weapon and rammed it right into the marine's wound. The khornate roared and looked down, only to feel a slight tinge of shock when he spotted a ridiculously large rokkit:

"Iz gave ya' a warnin' last time. Now Iz done wif talkin'."

He pressed a large button on the surface. The rokkit's powerful thruster roared to life. Gugulash resisted for a bit, but he was eventually lifted off the ground. Flying through the air like a furious comet, he screamed obscenities at anything in earshot, before finally erupting into a crimson rain of armour and body parts.

"Iz do love it when ratingz skyrokkit."

The damage was manageable. Several dozen dead boyz, three dead tyranids, a few broken walls and a gaping chasm leading directly into the sewers. Nothing a few grots couldn't fix. Well, except for the dead things. That was something for the dok, if he was feeling experimental on that particular day. Snogrot had more paperwork to fill out, too.

* * *

Gorasho received some more praise, before retreating back to Joe's. His two drinking buddies were nowhere in sight and so he merely sat at the bar. Joe was there momentarily:

"Ah, kaptin! Welcome back!"

"Where'd Malmortuz and Mirana go?"

"Oh, dey were talkin' about flexible tentaclez or somethin'. Deyz somewhere," Joe's grin grew wider, "Iz got a speciul meal fer ya' today kaptin!"

"Wot might dat be?"

"Iz call it Lendin' a 'and. Top secret recipez."

"Sounds tasty, Joe. Bring it right up."

It was more or less a stew. Tasted funky. Funky gud.


	6. Big Rok Ralley

**BRR - Big Rok Ralley**

'Twas a splendid day. Toxic fumes were forming clouds near the ceiling, the lights were all shining brightly upon the soon-to-be contestants and the countless fans nestled in buildings, many of them hastily-rebuilt after preparatory celebrations from the day before, chomping down on questionable treats brought to them by the nearest dok.

For it was time for the Big Rok Ralley, an annual event very much loved among the inhabitants, orky, or otherwise. With several different mekz competing for their design to be crowned the winner, there was never a shortage of new sights, spectacular mixtures of roaring engines, red paint, mostly green drivers and illegal secret weapunz, one could always count on seeing a bit of blood.

Speaking of illegal weapunz, that's where the heroic members of the BRPD came in, watching the happenings from above, from the comfy, cushioned seats of a deffkopta'. Well, two of them, anyway:

"Tekbrain, ya sure dis fingy can stay up?"

"Yeh, kaptin! Iz made it outta' wot remained o' da' buggy. Dat one flied gud."

"Makez sense ta' me," he looked out through the beautiful machine's dangerously missing right window, then slightly downwards, "you okay dere, senior kadet Snogrot?"

The ork in question was in a third, really rough seat, made of six different chunks of metal and precariously glued to the bottom of the kopta', with a complimentary, flimsy seat belt:

"Are ya' sure dis be safe, kaptin?"

"Safa' than bein' a driva' down dere," he chuckled a bit, "'sidez, wez need ya fer da' aimin'."

Snogrot clutched the rokkit launcha' in his arms tightly, then looked at the satchel of extra ammo to his right:

"Iz know, kaptin."

"Gud, now get ready. Da' race be startin' soon."

* * *

Everyone awaited with baited breath, as a gretchin in a black hat, clutching a small pistol in his hand, walked up to the first row of racers, raised his pathetic armament into the air and shot. No sooner was he flattened by the first row, when an explosion immediately shot one of the competitors into a nearby building, to the roaring laughter of its inhabitants. The only human contestants, in a green trukk. Never stood a chance, really. Snogrot's own rokkit made sure that the first disqualification of the day was permanent.

And they were off, dodging pieces of flaming wreckage, unleashing fire at each other, more often than not hitting the crowd. The kopta' was not far behind. While the rear devolved into little more than a case of vehicular manslaughter, the top three favourites were keeping things remarkably civil. That could only mean they were saving something particularly nasty for later.

The leader, for now, was mek Grotzappa's Stinga', a rocket-like four-wheeler with three separate engines under the hood. 'More enginez, more speedz. Simple enuff.' A fine motto to have in life.

Mek Metulmasha' would not be outdone easily. His Blue Boom was easily keeping up with the Stinga', even though it had one less engine and less purposeful design. Its red paintjob was interrupted by two blue streaks on the sides. 'Ya' can alwayz use a bit a' luck.'

Finally, trailing behind the both of them was an impossibly fast hill of metal, which did not even try to conceal the massive gun battery on its top. Mek Steelgrinda' never was one for subtlety, as his Big Tank handily demonstrated. 'Why botha' with hidin' stuffz? Jus' put ta' shooty bitz up dere, so da' oddaz know ta' keep away.'

The other racers could not keep up, or were simply crushed under the tank's treads before they could become a threat. As the battle for fourth place raged on, Gorasho shouted:

"These gitz will get rid a' themselvez. Afta' da top three!"

"Got it, boss!"

The race was intensifying, as the Stinga' ran into problems when navigating a turn, giving the Blue Boom time to overtake it. Big Tank finally decided to make its presence known as it obliterated a sizeable chunk of the road with a single shot. His opponents managed to dodge, if only by a little bit.

"Snogrot! Get 'im!"

Three rockets were shot in quick succession, one hit a squig pie stand, but the other two struck true, leaving little more than a scratch on the monster's armour. Blue Boom had a plan of its own, as it released a series of bombs onto the road. As the metal monstrosity rode over them, they detonated, tearing its treads to pieces. Steelgrinda's roar of fury could be heard all the way from the crowd.

Blue Boom afterwards took the lead, but before the polees could disqualify it, the Stinga' struck. Its tip opened up, revealing a massive drill, powered by a concealed fourth engine. With a burst of speed, it rammed into the leader, cutting right through any of its thin plating and squishy driver. The Stinga's engines roared further, hoping to reach the finish line within minutes. Snogrot's expertly-aimed rokkit ended any such hopes and dreams.

"Kaptin! I'z outta' rokkitz!"

"Dat'z fine. Iz don't think dere's anyone left."

A brief look at the raceway, littered with scrap metal and stray body parts, seemed to confirm his suspicion. But then, on the horizon, a moving entity was spotted. Small, tiny even, with several long noses peaking out of it, mostly towards the road. Da' Dingy, the only gretchin contestants of the day. Constantly arguing about which way to go, the group of six slowly, but surely, made their way to the finish line.

"Well, dat'z a first."

"Yeh, kaptin. A small step for a grot, a big jump fer grotz."

"Boyz, Iz don't think dey'z gunna' make it."

Tekbrain pointed more towards the back. Big Tank was somehow back on the road, even without half of its treads, and was gaining on the tiny team. The grots started panicking, one wished to go faster, another reminded him they only had one speed. They were doomed, surely. Snogrot could not bear to watch, Gorasho merely commented:

"Well, dere goez deir big jump," Big Rok suddenly shook, in its entirety, "wot da," it was back. The smell, the unsettling feeling of being stuck somewhere between time and space. The groups of cheerleading daemonettes were kind of a big giveaway, too, "again? Dat'z weird."

An explosion sounded, yet the grots were still intact. A violet fireball engulfed the starting line and something emerged from within. Faster than even a red deffkopta', its two wheels left a line of flame in their wake. The rider's laughter was maniacal, omnipresent, inescapable.

The daemonettes chanted as one:

"Who's that coming, who's that roaring, prince of riding, lord of roaming!"

The biker closed the distance in mere moments, just as the Big Tank was about to crush its much tinier opponents. Using the Stinga's wreckage as a ramp, he rose into the air, a deafening howl leaving his ever-burning skull:

"Dooooooooooomriiiiiiiiider!"

He rammed through the Big Tank as if it was made from paper, as another explosion engulfed the area. Two entities emerged from it, one infinitely faster than the tiny one.

So it was that Doomrider crossed the finish line first, his braking tearing apart the road. He was greeted by a small army of daemonettes, each reduced to little more than a shrieking fangirl. As he was signing the fiftieth autograph, the gretchin finally arrived, with inhabitants of all shapes and sizes coming to congratulate. During the two-hundredth autograph, a third vehicle appeared, miraculously. All green and with a sizeable hole in its side, yet functional nonetheless, the human team came in third.

The winners stood there before the masses. Doomrider kept striking poses for his fanclub, the grots formed a small tower out of their bodies and the humans just stood there, smiling like a bunch of dumbasses. Boss Nignub was proud to hand over their prizes, each a metal trophy of varying size, filled to the brim with teef. Shortly afterwards, all declared it was time for drinking. While most had to walk on their own, Doomrider simply jumped into his part of the crowd, who then more than willingly carried him off.

"Kaptin, dat wos amazin'!"

"Dat it wos, senior kadet Snogrot. Tekbrain, take uz 'ome."

"Aye, aye, kaptin!"

As they were flying, Snogrot became inquisitive:

"Tekbrain?"

"Yeh?"

"Do ya' know 'ow ta' land dis?"

"Nope. Still need ta' finish dat part of da' book."

"Ohz."

He proceeded to quite audibly gulp.


	7. Space Elvez

**Space Elvez**

Most mornings on the Big Rok were pretty simple. Wake up at a random time, after going to sleep at a random time, put a gob squig in your mouth, call it a morning and go muckin' about. That morning was quite different, if only because everyone woke up at the same time. Big Rok rammed into something. Even more peculiar had been the note, left at the door to his humble shack. 'Go see da' boss', its short message.

Boss Nignub was not an ork who liked to waste time, so the kaptin took such summons very seriously. He pushed past another particularly shiny door, guarded on both sides by particularly big orks. Not as big as Gorasho himself, but big enough to keep gits in line. The boss was waiting in his chambers, right next to a massive rack of hats, staring out of what had been a hole after a failed rokkit assassination, repurposed into a bone window.

"Ah, kaptin. Come in."

Gorasho took a few steps in, taking note of an impressive array of pointy stikkz, each decorated with a head of some freebootin' git:

"Youz called, boss?"

"I suppose you'z 'eard da' lil' crash dis mornin'?"

"Yeh. Wot we hit?"

"Dat be da' problem, kaptin," Nignub turned, arm-shoota' dangerously stroking against his chin, "deyz be real feisty. Took out a few a' me boyz already."

"And youz want uz ta' shoot 'em up, right?"

"No, kaptin. Deyz be eldurz."

Gorasho attempted to reach a realisation as to why this was bad. Eldar were sneaky gits. Runty, squishy, easy to chomp up. Tasted like old gretchin, or so he had heard.

"And?"

Nignub seemed to lose himself in his hat collection for a bit, then continued:

"Eldurz be real smart gitz, kaptin. We'z neva' had 'em on da' Big Rok, but Iz know enuff ta' know a mad eldur is bad fer livin'. Iz don't want mad eldur comin' on me rok with their weirdboyz. Iz want dem gone, but without shootin'."

"Well, dat ain't gunna' be easy, fer sure."

"Iz wouldn't give dis job ta' any otha' ork, kaptin. Now stop muckin' about and go!"

"Got it, boss!"

On the way out, he clobbered one of the guards over the head and immediately pulled out his talky-majig. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Sawblades filled the air with racket as the polees orks, after an hour or so of a fruitless search for a door, got to work on the ship's hull. It wasn't the biggest craft, but not the smallest, either, its sleek design in stark contrast to the Big Rok's own architectural eccentricities.

Gorasho watched the work a fair bit away, flanked on all sides by a row of blue uniforms. At his feet rested what little remained of a sign. He could still remember its full glory, hastily bolted above a worn steel door. Gretchin Bruwery for Grotz of all Sizes never saw it coming. A tragic loss of potential snacks.

The sawblades came to a halt and the orks gave Gorasho the thumbs up. He nodded and they, in response, tore down the plating. A small storm of projectiles filled the air, disposing of one of the cutters immediately in a cloud superheated metal. Polees personnel took cover behind whatever object they could find, as Gorasho slowly approached, Snogrot and Ugu close behind.

He stood right next to the opening, shurikens flying inches away from his face, and shouted:

"Oy, ya gitz! Stop shootin', I'z jus' 'ere ta' talk," it took a few moments for the barrage to finally die down. A nervous silence ensued, interrupted only by voices Gorasho couldn't hope to understand, "fankz. Now, I'z gunna' send one a' me boyz over 'ere. No gunz, no 'andz, jus' teef."

Snogrot reluctantly let his pet squig walk into the opening, where it stood and eyed the firing squad. The squig did not seem concerned and started scratching its back.

"Don't 'urt lil' Ugu!" his handler managed to scream out.

"Gud. Iz see ya ain't feelin' killy. Gud start. Anyone dere talk a propa' orky?"

After a bit more incomprehensible muckin' about, one voice silenced all others, female, audibly used to giving commands:

"I shall indulge you, ork."

"Not propa', but close enuff. Listen 'ere, pointy earz, you'z be on our turf now an' da' Big Rok Polees Departmunt," confused murmurs immediately erupt among them, "don't like it when dere be gitz muckin' about an' shootin'. You'z lucky, 'cuz da' boss wants ya nice an' 'ealthy and off 'is rok. We'z 'ere ta' help ya get off."

"And why should I believe a single word that comes out of your mouth, greenskin?"

"Propa' questiun. I'z got enuff boyz 'ere ta' start a waaaaagh. If wez wanted ya dead, you'd be dead already, eldur."

After a pause, there was a short bark of commands, before she replied:

"Very well, greenskin," an armoured boot stepped next to Ugu and petted him on the head, earning a soft growl. Her armour was of a dark green hue, with golden highlights. A massive weapon, half stave, half spear was clenched in one hand and on her shoulder shone a trio of triangles, encased in a ring of azure flame, "farseer Miriana, of Craftworld Ylgath."

Gorasho appeared from around the corner just as Snogrot snatched up his squig, standing a good couple feet taller than the farseer:

"Kaptin Gorasho Pain, Big Rok Polees Departmunt," he extended his hand for a handshake, but received only a confused stare, "now, wot can wez do ta' 'elp?."

"Any aid shall be appreciated. We haven't had much luck ever since we became separated from our main fleet."

"Right," he turned to the assembled police and shouted, "Tekbrain!"

The mek immediately started running towards them, his tool arm going crazy due to insufficient concentration:

"'Ere, kaptin!"

"Gud," he turned back to Miriana, "dis 'ere'z me best mek. Get one yer smart boyz and 'e can repair anyfin'."

Another voice suddenly entered the conversation:

"Fixing would not be a problem," the eldar was clad in what seemed to be a customised version of guardian armour, reinforced in certain places, "but our systems were critically damaged and we lack several crucial replacements."

"Captain, this is Malakar. He is a savant when it comes to machinery."

Tekbrain butted in:

"Oy! Youz need stuff? We'z got lotsa' stuff stashed away from da' odda' boyz. Wez culd find somethin' fer ya'."

"Direct me to this 'stuff'."

"Dis way, eldur. I'z got a buggy round da' corna'."

As the two gearheads disappeared, followed by a mixed escort of polees and visitors, the farseer commented:

"So my visions did not lie, after all."

"Visiunz?"

"They come and go, it is the nature of a farseer. A warrior, armoured in green, aiding me on a journey through the stars," she emitted a light chuckle, "I suppose I misinterpreted the armour."

"Well, me skin iz pretty tough," he guffawed, his trophy belt shaking with each movement.

It almost immediately caught Miriana's eye, the short, curved blade resting within a dark green scabbard, dangling on the captain's belt:

"Where did you get that dagger?"

"Wot," he held it up, "dis ol' fing? Dere'z anodda' eldur wreck on 'ere. No eldur, but 'ad some stuff."

"May I see it?"

The farseer slowly unsheathed it. An azure gem was embedded in its centre, among a web of intricate carvings. Her hand seemed to shake a bit, for the faintest of moments. She sheathed it once more and looked up at the big ork:

"I need to see this wreck."

* * *

Elsewhere entirely, in a conveniently located junkyard, a pair of figures sifted through a hill of trash. Or treasure. Depended on one's point of view.

"Your technology has always intrigued me," Malakar threw aside a busted slugga', only to find another, "so crude, yet ultimately effective."

"Let me tell ya', uz orkz likez our fingz shooty. It'z not 'ow somethin' lookz. It'z gotta' be killy, loud and 'ave lotsa' dakka. Youz Eldurz waste time on makin' it pretty."

"There is a hint of truth in your words."

"So, wot we lookin' for again?"

"Anything of eldar origin. With so many of our systems damaged, I will need it."

Tekbrain suddenly stumbled upon an old favourite:

"Oy, it'z me kan!"

Indeed, under a pile of mangled choppas, the head of a mechanised beast, missing most of its limbs, peeked from the junk.

"It's seen its fair share of combat, I see."

"Nah, I'z jus' used it fer targettin' practice. Seemed like a gud idea at da' time. Come ta' fink of it, me dredd should be somewhere around," a massive chainsaw suddenly burst from another pile not too far from them, "'ere?!"

The monstrosity burst from the junk, towering above them like an angry building. The chainsaw was on its right arm, while the left was home to an oversized powerklaw. Massive shootas were also attached, to provide some of that ranged firepower, along with a pair of rokkitz on the shoulders. Most surprisingly, in a heavily modified cockpit, sat a grot in a tiny suit of armour and a welding mask, which had a hole cut in it for his massive nose. He shouted at them like a god, through speakaz:

"Look at me and fear, ya' gitz! I'z had enuff of da' kickin' and jokez and muckin' about! I'z gonna stomp dis place up! I'z da Iron Grot!"

Down at ground level, Malakar was feeling inquisitive:

"You left that thing unattended and mostly intact?"

"Seemed like a gud idea at da' time."

* * *

Their trukk was unusually silent. The ones behind, filled with a mixture of eldar and orks, seemed to be having the time of their lives. But the lead trukk was silent, as two orks watched the farseer just sit there, scratching Ugu on the back. She seemed to be deep in thought, but finally exclaimed:

"I've always wanted a pet."

"Why not get one?" asked the senior kadet.

"A race on the brink of annihilation has no time for such things, sadly."

The kaptin changed the subject:

"Dis 'ere stabby choppa'," he subconsciously grabbed it on his belt, "you knowz it?"

"Yes, it belonged to someone."

"Friend?"

A short pause:

"Father. A warlock, powerful and wise. He left once on a recon mission. And I never saw him again," she seemed to gaze into space for a moment, "I must know what happened."

"We'z gunna' 'elp, right, kaptin?"

"Dat we are."

Ugu growled in approval, as well.

"Thank you."

They finally reached their destination. Most of the eldar immediately scrambled after exiting their vehicles and assumed firing positions, before getting laughed at by every ork in the area. The assembled gaunts, along with their warrior leader, were to blame. Gorasho calmly approached them:

"Punctuul as always," the warrior growled something in response, "gud. Stay out 'ere and don't let anyone in."

After receiving a nod, Miriana commented:

"Your allies are bewildering. How did you tame them?"

"Tame? Nah, wez jus' talked dem into stuff. Deyz like beer," feeling the answer was sufficient, he turned to a squad of 'ard boyz, suited up and ready to roll, "okay, fellaz. Wez goin' in with some eldurz and wez goin' lookin', got dat?"

"Yeh, kaptin!" screamed the group in unison.

The insides of the ship were as barren as the captain had implied. No weapons, no items, no bodies. A bit too barren, in fact. The farseer, however, seemed to know where she was going.

"Come, this way."

"Ya' know where ta' look?"

"I know this ship, captain," they seemingly came to a dead end. She stopped for a few moments, her mind probing their surroundings. Soon, one of the walls slid aside, "like the back of my hand."

"You eldur and yer trickz."

The short hallway they revealed led to a crossroad. Their escort split up, leaving only a handful of troops with the two leaders. They reached another door. This one would prove to be a hindrance. Try as she might, the farseer couldn't make them open.

"This one has been sealed."

"Don't worry," Gorasho looked at a confused 'ard boy, "I'z got a key."

As their new 'ard ram burst through the door, it revealed a large oval chamber, its walls lined with rectangular pillars. Between these pillars, stood peculiar statues, a small host lead by a much larger statue in the middle of the chamber. The kaptin was more interested in the next door, located at the far end of the room. As soon as he took a few steps towards it, Miriana shouted:

"No, stop!"

But it was too late, as something in the room stirred. The statues woke, their skeletal forms moving almost in unison. Massive weapons could be seen in their hands, undoubtedly ready to spew death and destruction. As Gorasho prepared for a fight, she added:

"Please, do not harm them. I sense immense rage, but I can calm them."

"Do it fast, den."

The 'ard boys charged into the fray, flanked by rather reluctant pointy ears. A black squig pounced at one of the wraithguard, preventing it from doing anything remotely useful. A few shots rang through the halls, as the constructs unleashed their firepower. One shot struck true, ripping right through an unlucky 'ard boy's armour.

Gorasho saw something dash into the fray. A closer inspection revealed the farseer in a furious melee, her blows carefully timed and aimed to avoid any permanent damage, concluding with a wave of pure force, sending several of them flying. The kaptin's attention was, however, attracted to the giant statue, which also whirred to life.

Towering even above a nob, the machine wasted no time and immediately swung with its massive sword, missing him by no more than a few feet. A shuriken cannon on the other arm attempted to rectify this mistake, but also came nowhere close. The construct did not even bother trying the lance-like armament on its shoulder, and instead slashed again and again, to no avail. A shout came above the fray, from a smart git:

"Kaptin, da' legz!"

He immediately turned and charged right towards the beast, ramming his full weight into one of its lower limbs. The wraithlord stumbled, but had miraculous recovery and delivered a crushing blow which sent even Gorasho flying. It closed in for the kill, blade raised to the ceiling. A scream suddenly echoed throughout the halls, touching ears and minds alike with a mind known only to some. The walker turned to Miriana.

They seemed locked in a staring contest for a moment, before slowly kneeling in front of her. Gently, she grabbed hold of its head, placing her helmet on it in an embrace of the minds. The other constructs seemed to be trapped in the trance, as well. Then it was gone, as fast as it had arrived. The wraithguard formed an orderly squad, the big one right next to them.

She walked over to an astounded nob and extended a hand:

"Their rage has been soothed. They shall trouble us no longer."

He took her deceptively delicate hand, only to feel an iron grip:

"Fankz," now back on his feet, he turned back to the door, "wanna' go dere?"

"It seems like that's our only option."

"Gud. Senior kadet Snogrot!"

"Yeh, kaptin?" Ugu was sitting on his head again, chewing on a plate of armour.

"Stay 'ere and make sure dese gitz don't muck about."

The room beyond was smaller, with racks for weapons on the walls. And what remained of the defenders on the ground. Bits of armour, helmets, broken weapons. All stripped clean of any blood or organic material. In the corner, she knelt, clutching some sort of plate. Carved hastily into its surface was a message in her language.

Gorasho stood there, watched her put the plate into a hidden compartment on her armour. Her hands were shaking as she removed her helmet, setting free a shoulder-length mane of silver hair. And then... she sobbed. Loudly, clearly, while a few tears ran down her face. She turned her head slightly, her dark brown eyes almost shining in the dimly-lit room:

"Captain... please allow me this moment of weakness."

"Yeh," he almost left, but then, added, " Miriana?"

"Yes?"

"Youz ain't weak. Youz jus' 'ave an 'eart." said he, noting the slight hint of surprise in her expression.

"T-thank you, captain."

* * *

She emerged from the vessel perfectly composed and spotted the kaptin yelling into some sort of talky-majig. As she approached, the words became clearer:

"Wot ya mean, rokkitz ain't killy enuff? Use da' deff beam," mumbling from the other side, "'ow'd 'e manage to smash da' toolshop? Oh, woteva', we'z comin'."

"Problems?"

"Nah. Just' one. But it'z real big."

* * *

The Iron Grot was on an unstoppable rampage. No amount of polees could seem to stop the monstrosity, their weapons ineffective against its several layers of steel plating. Gorasho Pain arrived on the scene first and ran up to the nearest polees boy:

"Oy! Statuz!"

"Kaptin," the boy was frantically gesturing with his arms, "we'z can't kill it! Our gunz be no good, bug boyz say deyz don't 'ave a big enuff bug and da' 'umiez and goody boyz be fightin' a few gangz."

"We'z gotta' do dis ourselves, then."

"Wot we gonna' do, kaptin?"

Gorasho simply smirked and looked behind him. The boy's jaw dropped, almost completely.

The host marched, numbering in the dozens, led by another fearsome giant. The smaller constructs stopped first in a single file and unleashes a destructive barrage of energy at the Iron Grot, causing the dredd to stumble. Its engines roared as it raised its arms in retaliation, the multi-linked shootas filling the air with lead.

To no avail, however, as the wraithlord stepped in their way, the small-arms fire a little less than useless against its frame. Both giants aimed their heavy weapons. Rokkit and beam filled the air and each combatant was struck, losing their respective armament in the process.

And so, they charged. Each step sent shockwaves around them, until they finally met. Blade clashed with the klaw, neither weapon having the advantage in the struggle, while the wraithlord's other arm barely kept the saw at bay. But it couldn't hold indefinitely.

A figure stood up from behind the lord's head, her armour a little scorched, but otherwise undamaged. Weapon in both hands, she sprung right at the enemy giant's pilot, who was busy screaming and trying to somehow escape. Her spear cut through the monster's plating as if through butter and struck its intended target.

Grot and dredd both collapsed, one with more devastating effects than the other. Miriana stood on top of the remains like a victorious hunter and slowly walked along the surface towards a group of spectators. The kaptin was among them:

"You'z dead killy."

"Thank you. I usually leave this up to the warlocks, but we are in desperate times."

Celebrations were temporarily halted when a pair of gearheads appeared from among the crowd. Malakar began:

"Farseer, I hate to be the bearer of bad news."

"Yeh, wot 'e said. We'z couldn't find da' right stuff, kaptin."

"But we have come up with a secondary solution."

"Plan B, kaptin." Added Tekbrain, after seeing Gorasho scratch his scalp.

* * *

A tower rose near the new eldar wreck, a mixture of exotic and downright barbaric technology. Its purpose would be that of a beacon, transmitting a constant distress signal, both through space and channels known only to the eldar. With the Big Rok's penchant for warping around, it was bound to run into another vessel eventually. Time was the only obstacle now.

Boss Nignub stood at the base of the tower before an assembled crowd, held aloft by a dozen gretchin. To his side stood the farseer and the kaptin, while the crowd around them consisted of every colour and race. His speech began, his gretchin barely able to stand upright:

"Today be a new day fer da' Big Rok. Not only 'ave we clobbered da' biggest danga' during me bossin' so far," always the record hunter, "we'z also got some new boyz muckin' about, fer now. The eldurz are welcome 'ere on da' Big Rok, as are 'umiez, goody boyz, bug boyz and any otha' kind Iz can't think about right now. So let dis be a great new era on da' big rok and stuff. Gud, now let'z get muckin' about!"

As the crowd cheered, the boss turned to Gorasho and gave him a thumbs up. Gorasho smirked back, then turned o Miriana:

"Oy, you'z want a drink?"

* * *

Joe's was full that night, full enough to burst, with some new inhabitants testing its offerings for the first time that day. But distance was kept around a set of VIP seats, reserved for only the best of the best and separated by a small, thorny fence. Most of it consisted of specialty squigs.

"Nice new thing ya' 'ave 'ere, Joe."

"Yeh, Snogrot," Joe was polishing a jug with loving care, his squig-wig squirming a little, "I'z charge extra fer dese, but not fer me best guestz."

"Mighty kind of ya', Joe."

The kaptin took another large gulp of his beer, then turned to Miriana. The farseer was enjoying a bowl of gretchin stew, along with Ugu, seated right next to her.

"I must say, this tastes better than it sounds."

"Only da' finest gretchin be ground into dust fer dat. Trust me, I'z put 'em dere myself."

"And here I was, getting used to rations," she suddenly realised, "wait, you will require compensation, yes?"

"Wot?"

"Reward, money?"

"Ohz, dat. Kaptin'z payin' today, but youz can otherwise jus' bring me some shiny bitz. Boyz pay gud teef fer shiny stuff."

"Yeh, and Joe always gives ya' a fair price. Speakin' of shiny, though," he placed the fateful dagger onto the bar and slid it over to her, "Iz think dis be yourz."

She tried hiding her smile, to no avail, and carefully grabbed it, as if it was made of glass:

"Thank you, captain. It means a lot."

"We 'ere at Big Rok know our hospitalitey."

As soon as he said that, an argument broke out, between an eldar and a slightly intoxicated ork. Apparently, opinions about the inferiority of squig pie would not be tolerated. The ork charged, but the eldar expertly dodged to the side, grabbed hold and guided the ork to the nearest street-facing window. Laughter erupted after that and the winner fit right in.

"Somehow, you were right."

* * *

My brightest sun,

If you are reading this, it is a miracle in itself. I am dead. We ran into problems, the wretched denizens on this hulk not the least of them. Know that I died a warrior.

Please, if you find this, know that I always loved you and I am sorry if I had ever seemed stern or cold. The day you were born was the happiest in all of my countless years. Please, for the good of yourself and our people, never give up. Shine for them, my sun, just as you shined for me.

Your shadowy moon.


	8. Talez and Runtz

**Talez and Runtz**

The building was nothing special from the outside. Just another hunk of steel, with very little in the way of decorations, slapped onto the hulk's wall. But, as many doks would claim, it was always the inside that counted.

The kaptin approached the door, a very rare wooden piece, with a grin, just like every month. A gentle knock on its surface later and it was opened. The noseless lady on the other side smiled, her charcoal hair tied into a messy braid:

"Ah, captain! Come in, come in!"

"Sorry I'z late, Ann," her full name was much longer, but a mutual agreement shortened it to a more pronounceable form, "some gitz set fire to da' boss pole."

"Oh, that's fine. Hurry, though, they're getting restless."

"Got it."

He ascended a small flight of stairs and opened another wooden door. The room beyond it was, to put it simply, cozy. Several small beds on one side, a set of former toolboxes, now filled with peculiar, even cute items of all shapes and sizes. All nestled on a pleasing red carpet, formerly the property of an unlucky inquisitor.

He was soon overwhelmed as the local inhabitants charged with zealous fervor, screaming his name, title or both. They flung themselves onto him, a mass of many colours and sizes, until he was brought down onto the ground under their weight.

"Okay, okay, Iz give," the little ones freed him and now stood all around, a mix of races only found on Big Rok, "Iz take it ya missed me, ya lil' runtz."

The children frantically nodded and screamed, their joy more than apparent. Save for one. Nestled in a nearby corner was another little figure, dressed in a dark green robe, her long, black hair flowing down to her back. Two long, dagger-like ears peeked from among it. Gorasho walked over to the corner and sat down right next to her, her large sky-blue eyes following his every step.

"'Ullo."

"H-hello."

"You'z new 'ere, ain't ya? Wot'z yer name?"

"Adriana."

"Gorasho," he extended his hand, massive compared to hers, and she slowly shook it, with some effort, "pleased ta' meet ya'. Da' otha' runtz treatin' you propa'?"

"W-well..."

He glared at the surrounding youth:

"Wot dat mean?"

A sporeling spoke up:

"She'z got pointy earz, kaptin." Some of the kids nodded.

Gorasho smirked and started pointing at each of the little ones:

"Well, youz may be killy, but you'z ugly and green. You dere, you'z blue and 'ave no nose. You 'umiez, youz ain't anyffin' speciul. So dere," he turned back to the little eldar, "so she haz pointy earz, so what? And soon, she'll even 'ave kurvez."

A no-nose spoke up:

"What are curves, captain?"

Gorasho scratched his head:

"Iz don't know. But all da' 'umiez Iz work with keep sayin' dat 'bout all da' eldurz. It'z a gud thing, I'z sure. Now, say sorry," some mumbled, some were more loud about it, but the apology was sent either way, "betta'?"

"Y-yes. Thank you."

"Gud. Dat'z 'ow wez like it," with a terrifying grin, he quickly changed subjects, "alright, runtz. Who wantz ta' hear a story?"

There was no protest to that, as the little army sat down around him.

"Wot'z it gonna' be, kaptin?" shouted one impatient ork.

"Well, Iz fink you'z gonna' like dis one. Seein' as dere 'asn't been much lately, maybe somethin' olda'. 'Ow about tellin' ya 'ow I became a kaptin."

Gasps of awe followed and the kaptin began his tale.

* * *

Big Rok. A place where several cultures combined, but always under the threat of a possible orky freebootin'. The BRPD, its stalwart defence against all things janky and downright git-like. And its kaptin, the fiercest of them all.

The nob stood there, among all of his semi-competent colleagues, looking like a boss. Hat stolen from an unlucky commissar, fashionable navy-blue uniform, twin-linked shoota' and his beloved chain-axe, Bessy, were ready to frighten or inspire anyone nearby.

His voice suddenly rose, louder than a trukk:

"Senior kadet Gorasho!"

The ork that approached was uncannily large, not quite as big as the kaptin, but big enough. His kunning, though, that was at least on a level with the leading nob.

"Yeh, kaptin?"

"Wot ya make of all dis?"

The scene was gruesome, to be sure. Pointy stikks lined the warehouse's walls, each with an accompanying orky head, the bodies just thrown about carelessly.

"Iz think dis be a message, kaptin. Someone doesn't like da' Grotsnakez."

"No one likez da' Grotsnakez, dey be pushy and loud. Iz need real info, senior kadet."

"Well, wez did find some," a bag labelled 'Importent stuffz' was quite full. First there came a torn flag, with a crossed out snake, "we'z got dis 'ere banna', belongin' to da' Snakehatez," next, a black badge in the shape of a skull, but with a massive nose attached, "dis Grothatez badgey thing," and finally, a pie, unnaturally green, "and dis pie, kaptin. Lookz old, though."

"Eh, green iz best," the kaptin spoke between bites, "so, wot we make of dis?"

"Everyone hatez Grotsnakez . Also, dose gitz did it, Iz think."

"You got dat right. And wez 'ave ta' go clobber 'em. Well, me and da' boyz do."

The slightly smaller ork was confused:

"Wot ya mean, kaptin?"

"Iz want you ta' stay back at da' base. If Iz call, you'z gonna' call fer more boyz."

"But kaptin..."

"Dat be an orda', senior kadet."

* * *

The HQ was silent, save for the constant beeping of his activated talky-majig. Tables were around him, each filled with a random assortment of papers, ammunition and others odds and ends.

The call still wasn't coming. Would it? He didn't know. All Gorasho knew was, that he hated waiting. Hated not knowing whether something was gonna' happen, or when. He hated just sitting and muckin' about. That was not something an ork should be doing.

He tried to get his mind off things, to no avail. Why weren't they back yet? The kaptin usually took care of stuff in a timely manner... he couldn't take it anymore. After a swift, perhaps premature distress call, he headed to the garages.

* * *

The buggy roared as it traversed the streets, its driver rushing to the scene. In the distance, he could see flashes of gunfire and explosions. He accelerated.

The scene was a mess. Polees boys trading fire with gangers, rokkits exploding all around them. They were in chaos, disorganised, inefficient. Where was the kaptin? He should have been there, shouting at them for muckin' about. Then he spotted it. A navy blue jacket, motionless on the ground. He dashed to the spot, luckily dodging a few stray bullets. The kaptin had obviously been less lucky, what with his legs missing and all that. The stubborn nob was still alive, though, if barely:

"G-gorasho?"

"Yeh, kaptin, it'z me. More boyz be on da' way."

"Gitz... got a lucky rokkit."

"Quiet, kaptin, save yer breath."

"Nah. I'z done."

"But kaptin..."

"Shut it. Iz... Iz promote ya, Gorasho," his arm barely touched Gorasho's shoulder, before he uttered his final words, "I'z promote ya ta' kaptin."

As the last bits of life left the former kaptin, many thoughts rushed through Gorasho's brain. The chief among them was 'I can get his hat'. And so, he did. Hat, shoota', even good old Bessy, he picked them all up. He then stood up and yelled at the top of his lungs, louder than a deffkopta':

"You gitz," the polees boys turned in shock, "youz call dat attackin'?! Stop muckin' about and get in dere!"

As soon as he finished that sentence, a bullet pierced his left eye and he fell to the ground. He lay there for a while, thinking about better tactical decisions. A polees boy suddenly entered his now-limited view, reaching down... for the hat. Oh, hell no.

Surrounding boys screamed when the new kaptin burst up from the ground with a punch, its strength enough to dislocate a head, about fifteen feet away from the rest of the body. He looked at the surrounding terrified orks, and shouted:

"No touchin' da' hat" he realised, suddenly, "oy, youz muckin' about! Get in dere and zog 'em up!"

With an ear-shattering waaaaagh, the polees charged into battle, their new kaptin at the head of the horde. Hatez were gonna' get stomped up.

* * *

The little runts liked the story a lot, they did.

"Iz must 'ave killed more than ten of da' gitz myself. Wot'z higha' dan ten? I'z neva' learned 'ow ta' count dat far."

"Eleven?" came Adriana.

"No, no, not dat many. Anywayz, runtz, I'z gotta' be goin'. Still got sum work ta' do."

With sometimes-teary goodbyes, he was sent off into the streets of Big Rok. After almost hitting the 'Two Hooves: Child Care' sign, his talky-majig rang. The news he received was not the best:

"Wot?! Da' boss pole be on fire again?!"

* * *

He was sitting near a trukk, covered in more blood than a khornate daemon, just trying to ignore the pain in his phantom eye. An ork came closer, dressed in polees colours:

"Kaptin?"

"Yeh, wot iz it?"

"Youz shouldn't leave it like dat. Da mek could give ya' a lil' fix fer dat. Cybork stuff."

"Not a bad idea. Youz a smart git. Wot'z yer name?"

"Snogrot, kaptin."

"Well, kadet Snogrot," a soon-to-be trademark grin appeared on the kaptin's face, "after Iz get me new eye, would ya like comin' ta' Joe'z? Iz hear dat place be gud."


	9. Codez Gitz

**Codex Gitz**

Several dozen pairs of armoured boots landed on the steel plating of the space hulk, magnetised to ensure good footing, a necessary precaution during a deployment on the outside. Miraculously, their scanners had located a functional airlock on one of the hulk's derelict ships and such an entrance was deemed preferable to a breaching pod.

Finally, they reached the inside, figure after armoured figure spilling into a dark, somewhat tilted corridor. Their mighty armour was dyed in a faded gold, their oversized shoulder pads a dark blue, with the image of a draconic beast upon them. The Golden Wyrms spilled into the corridor, most in power armour.

Their leader, muckin' about in the most advanced Mark V suit, its collar painted a dark red to signify his rank, spoke into his vox-caster, his voice deep and almost unnaturally calm:

"Command, we are inside."

The response was constantly interrupted by static:

"Y-your sign... eak. Proceed w... ution."

"Understood. Drachen, out," he switched it to a secure channel, one reserved for the squad, "any contact?"

"Negative, captain."

"Remain vigilant, brother," the leader turned first to two of their own, wearing a heavily modified light suit, fully sealed, usually reserved for the imperial guard, "scout ahead and notify us of any danger."

"As you say." Swiftly, but cautiously, the duo moved ahead, under the cover of shadow.

Finally, he turned to their guest, a figure no longer strictly a man. With more bionic implants than body parts and a massive servo-arm on his back, the enginseer was looking into the corridor with exactly none of his birth-given eyes. The replacements shone slightly with a green light.

"I hope your superiors were right about this, Darius."

"You should not doubt the wisdom of the Mechanicus, captain. Our lost vessel is here. We just need to delve deeper."

"Very well," he turned to the corridor, "Emperor, grant us your protection. Space marines, move out."

The blasted hallway seemed endless. Their monotonous march was suddenly interrupted by a vox-caster:

"Captain, there are orks on this vessel."

"Blasted greenskins." commented another of the marines.

"How many, brother?"

"Just a small group of ten. But the corridor leads to what seems like a fort. This group is blocking out path."

"Stay hidden, we are on our way."

At a quickened, but still silent pace, they reached the scouts, hidden behind what seemed like remains of another ship's bridge, wedged into the corridor, with only a small passage next to it, big enough for a single marine to pass through at a time. Chatter and laughter could be heard on the other side.

"Attacking them head-on would be difficult, captain. Especially if we wish to remain unseen."

"Ignus, ready your frag and..."

Suddenly, a shout from the other side:

"Oy, let go of me burna'!"

As the area beyond their cover was suddenly engulfed in flames, the captain allowed himself a smile. Some problems solved themselves. As the frantic screaming finally died off in the distance, the marines moved forward.

The area they entered was massive, filled with buildings of all shapes and sizes. They were on an elevated platform, with a small metal tower in the corner. The scouts moved over to an improvised railing and gazed down, while the rest of the squad moved to cover, ever vigilant.

"Mathias, what do you see?"

"Captain, it's a bit strange. Large open area. Populated mostly by orks. But I see some tau, as well."

"Tau? Are they trading weapons?"

"No, sir. Just... chatting, in a casual manner."

"Remain in position." what sort of treacherous hive was this, where ork and tau co-existed? More importantly, how were they going to cross such a populated area without causing too much commotion, "can you see any other path?"

The scouts looked around, then upwards:

"Up, captain."

A bit above them, a system of catwalks connected the tallest buildings and was well out of sight. The entrance closest to them was the little tower, conveniently unguarded.

"Move ahead."

The catwalks did let them cross undetected, but were themselves a maze, sometimes spreading into several separate dead ends for no discernable reason. Another elevated platform was in sight, however, so their hopes were fairly high.

"Let's hope there's not even more on the other side." Ignus, a veteran of two campaigns, spoke his mind.

"With orks, that's always a possibility, old friend."

"I wish we," suddenly, a part of the catwalk, more rusty than the rest, bent downwards, but did not yet break off, "well..."

"Move!"

It was too late. Under their combined weight, the metal broke off and fell down below, with the marines only barely moving off it. An unfortunate gretchin was flattened into a fine paste and all eyes were suddenly on them. An ork on the ground, wearing what looked like blue rags, shouted at the top of his lungs:

"Space marinez!"

An alarm was sounded and the other platform was suddenly occupied by at least a dozen armed orks.

"Into the building! Ignus, take two and cover our rear."

"Roger."

The entire group rushed into the nearest tower and descended down a spiralling staircase into what seemed like a giant warehouse. A blast suddenly sounded from above. Drachen turned just in time to see their rear guard exiting a cloud of smoke. Ignus held his heavy bolter in one hand and shouted:

"They won't be using that entrance."

"And neither will we." the enginseer was less than thrilled.

"If you'd rather get stabbed in the back, be my guest."

"Calm yourselves," the captain looked at the tons of surrounding boxes, filled mostly with what might have been considered food, "Mathias, take point on this floor, everyone else, we go down."

Firing positions were set up with frightening efficiency at all entrances and the marines kept away from windows for the time being, choosing instead to use the stored goods as cover.

"Well, this could have gone better." came the veteran.

"I would tend to agree. Mathias, what do you see?"

"The orks are setting up barricades of their own. All of them are wearing blue."

Another marine came in:

"Blue? Which clan is that?"

"They may just want to feel lucky."

"There are also fire warriors setting up firing positions in surrounding buildings."

The captain audibly sighed, into his vox-caster no less:

"Clever, for orks. They're waiting for us to act first."

"Captain, I have a visual. It's a big one."

Drachen dared peek through the window. There he was, among the crowd, at least a head taller than anyone else, wearing what seemed to be a stitched-together hat. He pulled out some sort of primitive vox-caster and shouted into it:

"Testin' grot, squig, grot... yeh, dat'z gud. Listen 'ere, space marinez, you'z now on da' Big Rok."

"Big Rok? How imaginative."

"Shush, Ignus."

"And on da' Big Rok, we'z don't like shootin' dat much. Well, we do. But wez don't just shoot fer da' sake of shootin'. Well, wez do, but... listen, jus' put down yer shootas and everyone will be gud."

"I've got him in my sights, captain," Mathias' aim with his sniper was well known, "permission to shoot?"

"Not yet."

"As a sign of gud will and all dat, I'z sendin' me best gitz... I mean, me best boyz."

The nob looked down to argue with some smaller ork, who was then seen running, along with a black squig.

"Captain, we cannot just sit here."

"I know that, Darius. But I fear even we cannot best those numbers. Let's see what this trick is first. Stay vigilant, brothers."

The ork was not visibly armed and a squig was manageable. They were allowed to enter the building and walked into at least a dozen bolters, aimed right at them.

Snogrot had this to say:

"Bloody 'ell. Not da' best night ta' lose in cardz." Ugu growled in agreement.

The captain approached him:

"What message do you have for us, ork?"

"Well, da' kaptin just wanted a' know if ya mind not shootin' stuff up? We'z just finished cleanin' it up afta' da' squigfest."

"And why should I believe that?"

"Wez get dat question a lot, ya' know. Kaptin says ya' should always count who 'as more gunz," Ugu casually burped, unimpressed by the men on display, "oy, why youz 'ere, anyway?"

It was time for Darius to speak:

"We seek an artefact lost on one of these ships."

"Oh, well, da' gear 'eadz could help with dat. Just put down yer shootaz and ya can look fer it."

"Very well," Darius sheathed his laspistol with little consideration and wanted to walk away when Drachen's mailed fist grabbed his shoulder, "hmmm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Captain, look at our odds. If we fight, we fight outnumbered against a combined-arms force with no escape route. Furthemore, this rok is probably crawling with thousands more of them. The probability of this ork speaking the truth is larger than zero and I'll therefore take it."

"Iz dat gud? Iz didn't undastand some of it."

"Yes, yes. Lead the way."

Calmly, the enginseer, squig and ork crossed the entire courtyard to the ork barricades, where he remained unscathed and standing rather awkwardly next to the nob, who pulled up his speaka':

"Oy, youz comin' or what? Iz got betta' stuff to do today, marinez."

"Captain?" Ignus sounded unsure, for the first time in months.

He contemplated it for a bit longer and made his final decision:

"Wyrms. Move out."

As soon as they left the building, the barricades were removed and the troops started leaving. Life seemed to return to what the local denizens could call normal. Drachen noticed a small pack of tyranid gaunts carrying the ruined catwalk. Was he going insane? Was the hulk touched by the Warp, had it infected his very mind? He couldn't tell anymore.

Kaptin and captain met face-to-helmet, the ork smirking:

"Gud ta' see youz not completely stupid. We usually 'ave ta' gun youz boyz down. Stubborn."

"I can't say I blame them."

"Snogrot tellz me you'z lookin' fer some shiny stuff?"

"You could say that. We know only the name of the ship it was in. We detected its signal and embarked."

"Wez can 'elp ya with dat."

* * *

The office, if one could call it that, was a mess of desks and shelves, each a home to several stacks of paperwork. The visible ones did not seem to concern the ork looking through them, tailed constantly by his black pet.

"Oy, wot ya' say it be named?"

"Purity of Justice." the captain was accompanied by Ignus and the enginseer and they collectively stood out like a trio of sore thumbs.

"Right. So dat'll be ova' 'ere." he made his way to a seemingly random table.

"How can you tell where to look?" inquired the other marine.

"Chaotic system, now, lemme' see," he opened up the second drawer from the left, and picked out a single sheet of paper, "okay. Just Puritey, Purist, Pure 'Un... youz boyz need ta' think of otha' namez. Ah, dere we go. Puritey of Justice."

The kaptin appeared, cleaning a little bit of gretchin from between his teeth:

"You'z got it?"

"Yeh, kaptin. It'z one of da' old onez. Da' one wez left alone when ya' became kaptin."

"Oh, dat one? Dis'll be fun, den."

"Why, what is on the ship?" if an ork found something fun, it was probably bad news.

The nob scratched his neck:

"Well, it be a bit overgrown."

* * *

They stared into the open maw of the ship, where its bridge had once been, torn off during impact or perhaps the cause of its crash in the first place. More importantly, however, the entrance was covered in plant life of several dozen colours, some seemingly watching them via unnatural organs. The Warp had a way of making things creepy.

"This is your idea of fun?" asked one captain.

"Yeh. Especially when Iz send some of my boyz ta' burn it up every week or so. Gotta' keep it away. Speakin' of which," he whistled and a small mob of boys appeared, each carrying a sturdy-looking burna', "deyz can burn us a way, but not too far. Da' stuff in dere startz fightin' back when it smellz burnin'."

"Do you know what lurks inside?"

"None of me boyz eva' came back ta' tell me."

"Wonderful. Wyrms," his fist rose into the air, "defensive formation. Darius must reach the relic."

Oh, how he loved the smell of burnin'. Best there was, only magnified if any creature of flesh and bone actually strayed too close. Plants just couldn't produce that sort of sensation, even if they were giant, elongated vines covered along their entire length by razor-sharp thorns. Just like the pack which was blocking their path through what had been a large hangar door, aggressively swatting in the direction of fire.

"Stop, ya gitz!"

And they did, immediately trading places for more regularly armed orks. The vines seemed to retreat as soon as the flames were gone, letting them through. Slowly, they ventured deeper, orks and scout marines first, equipped with combat shotguns for a change. The corridors got ever smaller, the flora turning as they passed, as if wanting to chat. Flowers and weeds of all shapes tracked their movement, an army of all-seeing eyes.

"This place is unsettling." Ignus was audibly uncomfortable.

"Stay strong, brother."

"Captain," Mathias chimed in, "we have movement."

Gorasho was audibly displeased:

"Wot?"

"We'z seen it, too, kaptin. Dere'z dese small thingz dartin 'ere and dere."

"Keep yer shootaz ready, den."

"Indeed, stay vigilant."

"Or dat."

They reached something very strange. Almost miraculous. A clearing in the neverending, forested corridors. Tables could be seen there, overgrown with grass but still visible, much like the ground. In the middle of the clearing was an empty hole leading into a black abyss. They gathered around the chasm, scanning for danger.

In the end, danger found them. Roars of varying intensity came from all around them and figures charged in from the jungle. Most were tiny, little more than limbed balls of animated bile. Others were tall, bloated figures, carrying swords that seemed at least partly alive.

"Zog dem up, ya gitz!"

"Tear them apart!"

The two groups clashed with thunderous roars. While the tiny daemons proved to be little more than a nuisance, dispatched easily with a stomp, a swing, even a steely gaze, their large counterparts were much more menacing, their blades cutting through metal and bone alike.

While most of the marines filled the area with a devastating barrage of bolter fire, Drachen drew his power sword. Its hilt was golden, dominated by a single ruby, tightly grasped in the claws of a dragon. Its blade was not only crackling with energy, it also had several prayers to the Emperor engraved along its centre.

With a battlecry, Drachen charged at one of the large daemons, expertly dodging its blade and retaliating with a mighty strike. The Eye of Cyrax cut the monster in twain as if it were a simple boar.

Gorasho and Bessy faired similarly, though, more due to the kaptin's sheer strength, rather than fancy tech. Snogrot pelted the monsters from afar with a shoota, being slightly more than useless, while Ugu had found a very amusing past-time in jumping on the smallest of the daemon host, in sequence and rhythm, no less.

The onslaught paused, as suddenly as it had began. They assessed their losses. Twelve shield-grots, five boys, three gits and one marine. Ugu was still jumping in place, incapable of stopping the rhythm. A roar suddenly sounded, unnervingly close.

From the chasm, a creature of monstrous proportions rose. Shaped like a serpent, its flesh was bloated, its skin covered with pustules. Saliva trailed from its massive maw, sickeningly green and even corrosive, as its contact with the ground revealed. Immediately it chomped down on a nearby ork, effortlessly snapping him in half.

Another half-wit tried to swing at it from close range, but his choppa' merely got stuck in its flesh and he became a snack soon afterwards. The monster turned to a pair of marines who were unloading rounds into it, and unleashed a cloud of noxious fumes in their directions. Gorasho noted he should not stand in those, an observation accompanied by the sounds of dissolving respirators and excruciating pain. Mostly pain.

The group scattered as the daemon struck once again, targeting a certain squig, who luckily jumped out of the way. Two figures charged against the beast in accidental unison, from opposite sides, conveniently enough. With two battlecries, their weapons struck:

"For the Imperium!"

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhh!"

Missing each other's blow by inches, the plague serpent was sliced in half, bile spewing out onto the ground in a small torrent. Wiping their boots on nearby foliage, the captains'... or kaptins' gazes met. Gorasho gave him an excited thumbs up and Drachen returned it in a rather awkward manner.

A voice broke the sudden silence:

"Ah, I have located it!"

The enginseer had seemingly ignored the entire fight, choosing instead to examine a nearby wall. After applying sacred oils onto a button on the wall, mumbling prayers while doing so, he simply pressed it, revealing a small compartment. Within it, was an unnecessarily decorated data slate. The enginseer beeped happily upon noticing it and held onto it like a mother holding her newborn.

* * *

The goodbyes, such as they were, were brief. Overly excited on the side of the orks, with random gunshots, screams and even tears. The marines returned the favour, albeit only with awkward waves, maybe a few timid shouts.

Close to the airlock, the signal once again returned:

"Cap... Drachen?"

"Here, command," with each step, the other side got clearer, "mission accomplished."

"Good to hear good news. Any losses?"

"Three brothers."

"May the Emperor guide their souls."

The thunderhawk's interior felt good. It felt familiar, logical, grounded in the laws of the universe. One final question arrived:

"What is the state of the xenos threat?"

He saw their looks, of all those on the craft, from Mathias, to Ignus. His words earned him many nods:

"The threat is contained. Small pockets of xenos, fighting each other over scarce resources. No cleansing necessary, at least for now."

"Affirmative. Command, out."

* * *

That night at Joe's, the kaptin was busy retelling the story to Miriana, who had decided to try the daily special, 'Lendin' a Leg'.

"I bet they won't forget such a meeting."

"Hopefulley, dey'z won't bring any more boyz along."

"Iz don't think so, kaptin. Seemed like an 'onest bunch, deyz did," a tyranid warrior sitting with them in the VIP area coughed up a handful of teeth onto the counter, "plus, Iz don't think dey'z gonna' rush back 'ere."

"Gud point, senior kadet Snogrot," Joe gladly took the teeth and handed a large portion of squig pie to the beast, earning it a weird glance from Ugu, "gud point, indeed."


	10. Da' Rippa' - Part Unoz

**Da' Rippa' - Part Unoz**

**Ol' Grudgez**

The streets seemed extra dirty that day, as if affected by some sort of weird filter. A small cloud of mist stuck to the ground, accidentally generated by mek Boomzappa' the night before. The humie district was surprisingly empty, with everyone cowering in their homes. A killer was on the loose.

Gorasho made his way to the crime scene, chomping down on something the humans called a donut. Dead gud, it was. Snogrot and Ugu were at his side, as was Miriana, more out of curiosity than anything else. The orkoids and eldar finally reached the crime scene, a shady alleyway connected to a darkened street shrouded in shadow. The lights needed some heavy fixing, they did.

An inspector was there, identified by a rather snazzy bowler hat and trenchcoat. Human police officers took pict-feeds of the crime scene. It was gruesome, to be sure, for a small crimson trail spread out into the street. The kaptin was pretty sure it wasn't paint, too. They approached the man, who looked up at them, a large cigar sending small clouds of smoke into the air.

"Captain. Good to see you here."

"Yeh, yeh. Ya' sounded worried on da' talky-majig."

"Yes, well, it's the circumstances. Two dead, man and his wife. No witnesses, just brutality," a brief look into the alley revealed some idle body parts, "signs of ork weaponry."

"And dat'z why we'z 'ere. Anyfin' else?"

"That's why I was worried, captain. There's a message. For you."

Gorasho took a few steps into the alleyway and almost immediately froze, his gaze locked on the nearest wall. There, painted in a dark crimson, was an image. An image of a serrated knife. Right below it, was a letter, partly stained, but otherwise quite readable. He grabbed it, almost as if in a trance, and scanned it with a quick glance.

"Dear ol' kaptin Gorasho. I'z sorrey it took me so long, but orksesez got stuff ta' do, right? Well, I'z been watchin' da' newz and you'z made lotsa' new matez since Iz waz gone. Figure I'z got some catchin' up ta' do. An' by catchin', Iz mean slicin'. Let'z see if ya' hit me dis time.

Yer goodest friend, da' Rippa'."

The other bystanders just stood there in silence. Finally, he blurted out:

"'E'z back."

While Snogrot and the inspector just gave knowing nods, Miriana asked for the necessary exposition:

"Who?"

"Da' Rippa'. Sorry, I'z need ta' go right now. Snogrot take 'er away."

"Yeh, kaptin."

The kaptin stormed off like a madboy, leaving a very confused eldar among the illuminated. She turned to Snogrot, who expertly anticipated the question:

"I'z tell ya' on da' way. Long story, dat one."

* * *

Big Rok. Often a hive of questionable, even downright heretical interspecies relations, but otherwise, not that bad of a place to live in. But there were always those hell-bent on destroying such a fragile peace. Gits and lowlifes believing that one section of inhabitants was superior to others. Most often, such enemies were taken care of with a quick clobberin', followed by a slower, more deliberate clobberin'. But then, there was him.

Known by many names. Crimson Shadow, Purifier, Black Death, Snikrot's Cousin. Finally, there was the name he had given himself. Rippa'. A dark spectre that always struck and disappeared swiftly, leaving the polees no evidence other than taunting letters to its kaptin. An ork of Ghazghull's teachings, believing in the utter superiority of orkoid life.

* * *

"We'z thought 'e must 'ave been a kommando or somethin'. Possesed a mean kunnin', dat one," Snogrot explained, expertly dodging an exposed manhole, "but then, one night changed it all. He zogged up, iz what I'z sayin'. Wasn't quick enough. And da' kaptin' started chasin' 'im."

* * *

Their chase was often spoken of in legends. For hours, the duo ran through the streets and alleyways of the Big Rok, neither ork capable of gaining the upper hand. Finally, the race took them to the sewer, its maze of tunnels a surefire way to lose any pursuit. The kaptin was exhausted, yet da' Rippa' seemed to move with renewed vigour.

A fateful set of crossroads was close by. One turn and the criminal would easily escape once more. Gorasho decided to take one last shot. Well, volley. As he unloaded his entire magazine, most bullets only ricocheted off the walls harmlessly, but some struck true, proving that more dakka was always best. Da' Rippa's right arm exploded in a red mist, but once it cleared, there was no ork in sight. Only an enraged scream, echoing within the tubes:

"We'z gunna' meet againz, Pain!"

* * *

"Kaptin' came out alone. Exhausted, not quite happy. Didn't even go ta' Joe'z dat night."

"Could this not be just some imposter?"

"Nah. Same style of cutz. Same numba' of cutty bitz on da' knife picturez. Same writin'," he said, examining said letter, "dis be 'im."

"And what does he want? Revenge?"

"Dat would be a start. But rememba' wot'z in two dayz?"

Her eyes shot open in realisation.

"But why would he announce his presence beforehand?"

"A challenge, Iz think."

* * *

In another part of the Big Rok, a very big ork was shouting at an even bigger ork, surrounded by hat-covered pointy stikks:

"You'z gotta' call it off!"

"Gorasho, youz can't jus' say dat," a small tower of gretchin balanced next to the boss, handing him new styles of hats from the aforementioned stikks, each coloured dark blue. Another bunch were holding up a damaged mirror with all their strength, "we'z been preparin' dis fer weekz now, I'z spend a trukkload of teef on all dese hatz alone."

"Betta' ta' lose teef than lose da' attendeez."

"Listen up, Pain," Nignub abruptly turned around, sending the hat gretchin onto the ground, luckily not onto the mirror. One poor grot was crushed as the warboss took a step forward to the nob, "you'z da polees kaptin 'ere. You'z da' one who'z takin' care of securitey round 'ere. So you'z gotta' make sure it all goez gud," turning back to the mirror, he grabbed another hat by himself, "dis parade will be da' biggest on da' Big Rok. So bring about da biggest numba' of boyz. Simple, ain't it?"

The kaptin wanted to retort, but finally just gave up:

"Yeh, boss."

"Dat'z da' spirit! Dis'll be great, I tell ya! First of its kind, too!"

With a sigh, the kaptin left the building, clobbering one of the nob guards on the way out.

* * *

The call had been mysterious, brief, to the point. 'Come to da' roof.' The roof in question was one of the few on the Big Rok that offered any sort of view, as it belonged to an unconventionally high building. It was therefore not of orkish design, which also meant the staircase was actually useable.

It had become a favourite spot for her. Not too far from the ship, secluded away from the hustle and commotion of the hulk. A perfect spot for meditation. Or a little meeting.

He stood there, scratching his thick, green neck, just gazing off into the distance. She brushed a rebellious strand of silver hair from her face, then spoke:

"You called."

"Dat Iz did," he didn't actually turn over to her, just slightly moved his head, "youz probably know why, too."

"It's not hard to connect the dots. Parade and Ripper equal danger. And I'm an honoured guest."

"Not just dat. You'z sittin' right with da' boss. Gud stuff, dat. Not so gud with da' Rippa' around."

"Gorasho..."

He nervously stepped to the other side of the roof:

"'E mentioned matez. 'E neva' just writez somethin'. Dat waz a message."

"Pain, listen here," he finally turned, "if he is as determined as you say, not coming to a parade will only delay the inevitable. And if he does want to attack," a faint crackle of eldritch energy danced around her fingers, "I'd rather he attack when we're expecting him, in a place surrounded by an army of easily-irritable security guards."

"Well... Iz guess dat'z... not gud. Just betta'."

"Good. Now, please, allow me to rest my mind. There's a lot to prepare for."

"Iz couldn't agree more."

With a renewed enthusiasm, the nob set off for parts unknown, leaving her alone in a cool breeze.


	11. Da' Rippa' - Part Doz

**Da' Rippa' - Part Doz**

**Party Bitz**

It was all going sickeningly well. The parade was fine, the polees were keeping an eye out for anything, and attendance was through the roof. He emitted a sigh and allowed himself a moment of enjoyment, looking into every corner.

Furthest from him, was the 'Petz Zone', filled with all manner of finely trained beasts, from the fluffiest of squigs and thorniest of gaunts to the smallest of squiggoths and carnifexes, much more docile than their gargantuan cousins and, to the enjoyment of many kids and some adults, perfectly rideable. Right next to them was the 'Big Rok Rodeo', a valuable source of anatomical knowledge, provided that one of the contestants couldn't quite hold on.

To the left was 'Da' Gearzone', where meks and other smart gits of all shapes and sizes came to show off their toys. In the case of Malakar and Tekbrain, quite literally, as their new line of Metul Punchiez clearly illustrated, capturing the playful spirit of any onlooker within seconds, as well as any teeth or shinies they might have been carrying at the time. Other meks went for one of a sextet of innovation categories. Bigga', shootia', stompia', killia', fasta' or burnia'. None of the attendees dared to go for all six and only those meks that had attempted such insanity were absent.

To the right, a spectacular fashion show had been set up, showcasing the finest, kinkiest and most rugged Big Rok had to offer. The ork section was rather small, since ork fashion was a largely loose term at the very best of times. Yet no one could deny the 'Blingy Bling Dress' of famed loota' Goldtoof was simply fabulous to behold. The light reflected off its surface actually hurt the eyes, which is why self-defence was actually one of its selling points. Not that that would help you against a famed loota' like Goldtoof.

And finally, there were the 'Eatin' Pitz' all around him. A haven for gluttons and orks, a place packed with more meat per square inch than a fully grown eating squig. From suspicious brews, to regular old unhealthy ones. From the classical to the experimental, like dok Grotsnik's special stew. That one tasted funky gud. Less popular meals included meatmasta' Irontoof's 'Rok Sausage', harder than the finest imperial steel, yet somehow pretty light, both in terms of weight and amount of time it lingered in one's digestive tract. A culinary mystery, indeed.

And above it all, ridiculously high on an elevated platform, the nobility watched it all with a smile. And while most of them were actual nobs, the odd human or tau did sit among them. Most eye-catching, as per usual, was farseer Miriana. Even from such a distance, he could see she was also scanning for danger.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying it, except for him. He could even see Snogrot and Ugu stuffing their faces in the crowd, the squig again choosing a vantage point on the ork's bare scalp. Suddenly, speakers all around them came to life, as Nignub finally rose from his seat, ready to deliver another potentially rousing speech. The parade quieted down a bit, though some particularly noisy blokes at the rodeo kept wailing on about missing body parts. Or something of the sort, it was hard to discern the words among bursts of concentrated pain.

"We'z 'ave gathered 'ere todayz," the boss started, optimising radiating from his imposing tower of hats. Sometimes, choosing was hard, "to celebrate Big Rok an' all of itz different inhabitentz. We'z grown beyond jus' a small..."

And then, it cut off, yet the speakers were still more than functional. Amidst the utter confusion, a new voice came, raspy even for an ork:

"Big Rok. Me good ol' matez," Gorasho immediately barred his teeth, "it'z been a long time, it haz. Well, I'z hate ta' crash yer party bitz, but I'z got some newz of me own ta' say. Rippa'z back, matez," shrieks echoed from the crowd, "and Rippa'z gunna' show ya' da' way. Da' way off da' Big Rok, of course. But before da' real fun beginz... a lil' demonstartion. Enjoy da' fireworkz. Oh, and just a lil' 'ello to me bestest mate, Gorasho Pain. I'z gunna' slice ya up real nice."

And with that, a massive explosion rocked the parade, from beneath their feat. As part of the sewer collapsed right under the elevated boss platform, Gorasho immediately acted, first by running over to the meatmasta'.

As the platform was slowly collapsing, the less gifted of brains, ie., the nobs, started jumping off, though their orky constitution made sure they got away with only broken limbs. Nignub started shouting orders at any groups of nearby grots, who in turn sighed and started forming meat cushions for the nobility.

The platform shifted uncontrollably and she lost footing, barreling straight off the edge. After plummeting a few metres, something stopped her fall. After a brief awareness check, she detected a large green arm clutching onto her, with a similarly large grin smiling down at her. The kaptin's other hand was busy holding onto an improvised lasso, its sausage-like form a culinary mystery for years to come.

After a surprisingly smooth landing, she looked up at her rescuer:

"You sure know when to make an entrance."

"Timin'z everythin', if ya' ask me."

A mighty shout echoed throughout the parade, even without speakers to assist it:

"Paaaaaain!"

The kaptin turned just in time to see Nignub smash another unfortunate gretchin under his boot. Gorasho chose to remain a snarky git:

"Told ya' so."

"Pain, dis be all yer fault! Me parade'z gunna' get ruined at dis point," thankfully, there were no casualties, though the pavement would need to get scrubbed clean of grot pudding, "why'z didn't ya' 'ave any boyz lookin' out fer dat?!"

As if called for, Snogrot came up to the duo:

"Kaptin! We'z found ten boyz cut up in da' sewa'!"

"Fankz, senior kadet," he turned back to the boss, "I'z told ya' we shoulda' cancelled dis. But no, we'z gotta' 'ave anotha' record."

"Watch yer tongue pain," they locked gazes, "dose look gud on pointy stikkz. Now, I'z give ya' two dayz ta' catch da' Rippa'. If you'z don't... yer whole 'ead will go on a stikk. Understand?"

With a defeated growl, the kaptin merely blurted out in defeat:

"Yeh, boss."

* * *

Tekbrain was busy looking over what remained of the bombs, while the kaptin nervously stood by. Snogrot and Ugu were busy enjoying themselves with two particularly awesome Metul Punchiez. Ugu seemed to be winning, despite his lack of arms.

The mek looked up from what remained of the bomb and spoke:

"Dis be a kustom stikkbomb, kaptin. No tima', remote bitz in it. He blew it from some distance away."

"Any way to track da' stuff?"

"Maybe if Iz 'ad da' whole thing, but like diz? Nope. He had ta' be pretty close ta' blow it up, though, an' den 'e ran away, I guezz."

Snogrot suddenly had an epiphany, though, he did not realise it, since orks didn't know what an epiphany was.

"Wait a minute. I'z got it."

"Wot?" shouted the other two in unison.

"I'z know where 'e iz."

And without any further explanation, he darted towards the exit, then towards the BRPD HQ, followed by a confused, if enthusiastic kaptin and reluctant Ugu close behind. Tekbrain merely scratched his scalp and, after having an epiphany, immediately contacted Malakar with a revolutionary new idea. Metul Shootiez.


	12. Da' Rippa' - Part Trez

**Da Rippa' - Part Trez**

**Showdownz**

"Senior kadet Snogrot," the kaptin shouted at the smaller ork, who kept rushing to and fro in the office, bringing more and more documents onto a few tables, temporarily pushed together to form a bigger one, "would ya mind tellin' me wot da bloody 'ell you'z doin'?!"

"I'z tellin' ya, kaptin, Iz know where 'e iz!"

"Dis should be gud."

"No, really, kaptin, here, lemme' show ya'."

The tables held up a massive map of the Big Rok in its entirety, from the warpal gardens to the sandy beaches. Dozens upon dozens of red crosses had been placed on it, in every non-ork district.

"Now, looky 'ere, kaptin. I'z been lookin' through da' old casez. Da crossy bitz be placez where da' Rippa' cut some boyz up. See, they be all ova' da place."

"Iz know dat, Snogrot. Iz need real info 'ere."

"Lemme' get to it! Zog," he suddenly pointed to a space with no marks, the 'Big place where we 'ave paradez and stuff', "see it, kaptin?"

"See wot?"

"Exactley! Dere be three 'umie and goody boy districtz right 'ere around da parade bitz. But there'z no X. Almost like da' Rippa' don't want us muckin' about."

"Maybe 'e just didn't get dere yet."

"Maybe, but listen. We'z both know da' Rippa' likez seein' wot 'e doez, right?"

The kaptin nodded slightly:

"Right."

"'E was probably watchin' da bombz go boom yesterday. But we'z didn't even spot 'im. Looky 'ere, though," his green finger moved lower, to what looked like derelict ruins, "da' old smelta', da' one dat went boom. Real close, close enough to blow some stuff up, if ya' ask me. Nobody goez muckin' about dere. Perfect spot," Gorasho started scratching his chin, a fiery spark in his eyes, "da' Rippa' be in dere, kaptin. I'z know it."

"Only one way ta' be sure," he rose from the table and turned to leave, "gud job, senior kadet."

"Wait, you'z goin' alone?"

"If Iz take boyz with me, 'e'll see uz comin' and zog off. Dis be my fight."

"But kaptin!"

Gorasho turned, a hint of rage in his features:

"Listen 'ere, Snogrot. I'z say I'z goin' alone. You'z a smart git, so you'z gonna' let me, understand?"

The smaller ork cowered a bit, then simply nodded. Content, Gorasho stormed away. As the roar of a buggy could be heard, Snogrot looked down to his foot. Ugu was staring right back at him with a look equal parts grim determination and fanatic devotion. Or maybe the little squig was just hungry.

* * *

The smelter's ruins were a small maze of corridors, created more by rubble than any of its previous design. Slowly, shoota' and Bessy raised, he made his way through it, eyes and ears scanning for anything out of the ordinary. Light passed through a few holes in the ceiling, providing just enough light to continue.

In the distance, he suddenly heard a clang, followed by other mechanical noises. Someone was definitely working on something. He followed the noise to the remains of a steel door, blown straight off its hinges. The noise was coming from within and so, with baited breath, he looked beyond the doorframe.

The room had been repurposed into some sort of workshop, with shelves lined from top to bottom in all manner of deadly implements, but most commonly explosives of all shapes and sizes. A hooded figure was working on another such device, tall, muscular, the right side of his body hidden by a tattered, blue cloak. His skin was a dark shade of green.

Without thinking too much, the kaptin aimed his shoota', shouting:

"Oy!"

A volley of bullets was unleashed, yet the figure expertly dodged to the side and the rounds managed only to wreck a perfectly good table. His head turned to look at the kaptin, his features still hidden in the shadow, save for a pair of flaming, red eyes. Rippa' returned the shout:

"Pain?!"

"One and only, git!"

"How'd ya find me?!"

"Youz ain't da' only smart git on da' Big Rok."

The Purifier stood upright, nodding his head slightly:

"Ah, Snogrot. Should 'ave sliced dat git long time ago," he shook his head, "woteva'. Iz can do dat lata'. When da fireworkz really start."

Gorasho growled:

"So dat'z wot all da bombz be for."

"Oh, yeh, kaptin. I'z gunna' turn all da' weakiez on dis zoggin' rok into yoghurt. With just a few buttonz."

"Wot makez ya think I'z gunna' let ya?"

"Because youz neva' had wot it takez to stop me."

He shot again, but the Crimson Shadow darted into another doorway and Gorasho gave pursuit. The duo dashed in the swirling corridors of the smelter, the kaptin never seemed to get any closer, but continued raining shots on the Rippa', but invariably missed. The other ork cackled and taunted him at every turn, further worsening his aim.

Finally, the chase came to an end. On a precarious walkway, partially demolished during the long-gone explosion, Black Death came to a halt. Gorasho ran up, noticing the massive array of jagged tubes and spikes below the destroyed bridge, as well as a few dozen long chains hanging to the right of it, with a smaller bridge beyond them.

He unloaded his final rounds, finally creating a disappointing click when the weapon ran empty. The final volley mostly missed, but some bullets struck where the right arm should have been, only to bounce off with a clang.

A ray of light illuminated the Rippa's face, revealing an unusually large pair of fangs, as well as a noticeable scar, running from the top of his scalp down to his chin.

"You'z alwayz been a lousy shot, Pain. Ya' got lucky dat time. But I guezz I should thank ya'," he flung aside the cape, revealing his new arm. Completely orky in every respect, mashed together from what looked like space marine armour plates, it ended in a massive set of long, sharp, serrated daggers, fashioned into the shape of a regular hand, "afta' all, youz did give me dis real gud cybork arm. Cuttia' than five otha' armz, dis one."

"Youz gunna' keep yappin'," holstering his shoota', the kaptin' whirred Bessy to life, "or youz gunna' start fightin'?"

"Iz though you'd neva' ask, kaptin!"

The two nobs charged in unison, Gorasho with a rage-filled battlecry. Chain choppa' darted through the air in rapid swings, but the Rippa' was just too fast, manoeuvring just out of the kaptin's reach. And then, like the fiercest squig, he struck back, the knives on his arm biting deep into Gorasho's side.

With a roar, Pain continued the assault, but fared no better and received another such blow to his shootin' arm. And then another cut up his chest and uniform. It was like the butcher was just toying with him, so efficient and effortless were his strikes. The kaptin finally fell to one knee, and though he remained defiant, it was obvious who had the upper hand.

"Heh, did ya' really think I'd go down dat easily? You'z less kunnin' than they give ya' credit for, Pain. Ya' got any last wordz? I'z got stuff to do."

Before the nob could spit out a sufficient insult, a loud scream echoed through the smelter:

"Kaptiiiiiin!"

They both looked towards the smaller bridge, Snikrot's cousin just in time to see a black maw of jagged teeth close around his face. Snogrot kept swinging back and forth on one of the unnecessarily long chains like some sort of jungle fighter. Gorasho did not waste his chance. Tightening his grip on Bessy, he dashed to his opponent and, with one mighty swing, severed his cybork arm, cutting through meat and armour with little issues.

Ugu dislodged himself from an unfortunate face, leaving behind several new sets of scars and releasing the nob's painful howl. Just in time for the kaptin to deliver a crushing headbutt, which made the butcher stumble and fall off the edge of the bridge. Yet even so, he managed to grab hold of the metal with his remaining arm. Which the kaptin then very gladly stomped on, earning himself another yelp.

After sheathing Bessy, he looked at the still-swinging Snogrot and helped him down onto the bridge.

"Fankz, senior kadet."

"Anytime, kaptin."

The trio then gazed down at the still-hanging criminal, Gorasho with his trademark grin:

"Need an 'and?"

"Zog you, Pain. And you, Snogrot. And yer zoggin' squig," he gasped as the kaptin stomped down a bit harder, crushing several bones in the process, "you'z mad! Youz protect all da' weakiez! All da' squishy 'umiez and goody boyz and kurvy eldurz! You'z gunna' destroy da' Big Rok, not me!"

"Let me tell ya somethin', Rippa'," he again increased the pressure under his boot, "I'z seen lotsa' stuff 'ere on da' Big Rok. Orkz fightin' like 'umiez, 'umiez fightin' like orkz. I'z seen all dese differin' boyz from all pointz of da' ooniverse get togetha' for a good jug of funguz beer. I'z seen them fight, only to go back to muckin' about and just havin' a good time. I'z told da' bestest storiez to da' bestest lil' runtz in da' galaxey," one last increase in pressure, with an accompanied yelp, "so if dat'z wot'z destroyin' da Big Rok, maybe it'z time fer da Big Rok to change and get used to it, 'cuz anyone be welcome 'ere. Well, except gitz like you."

He finally raised his foot and the Rippa', no longer able to hold on, fell. His paniced scream was cut short as he landed on the jagged spikes below, impaling himself on no less than a dozen. The kaptin shouted down at the presumed corpse:

"Iz hope ya got da' point," content with his line, he turned to Snogrot, who was holding up a grenade. He took it gladly, then added, "and 'ey, at least ya' go out with a bang!"

There was no kill quite like overkill, after all. The grenade detonated just as they stepped off the bridge and Gorasho turned to the senior kadet:

"Youz came anywayz."

"Well, yeh. Can't leave me kaptin alone and stuff. Didn't bring any boyz, though, since ya said those would scare 'im off."

"Fankz. Listen, Snogrot," he sighed, "I'z sorry. Fer yellin'. You'z no smart git. You'z a smart boy. And don't let anyone tell ya' otherwise."

Snogrot almost teared up at the words. The kindest he had ever received:

"Fankz kaptin. So, we goin' to Joe'z?"

"Go. I'll come see ya in a bit."

"Right. Come on, Ugu."

As the two ran off, the kaptin allowed himself a smirk. He needed to get bandaged up and then...

* * *

The breeze was particularly cool that evening. The primary lights had already been shut off for the rest of the night and so, she meditated without their annoying interference. She heard him coming from two floors away. Finally, he reached the roof, bandaged, but otherwise fine. Without even twitching an eyelid, she greeted him:

"Hello, captain."

"Dat woz creepy."

That forced her to chuckle, breaking her concentration.

"I hear you caught him. Good job."

"Fankz. Listen, Iz wanted to ask, wot be dis thing ya be doin'?"

"Meditation, captain. It helps me relax."

"Uhh, right. Could Iz try?"

The mere thought made her chuckle again, but she humoured him.

"Very well, sit down next to me, in whatever position makes you comfortable."

In direct opposite to her crossed legs, he just stretched them out.

"Gud."

"Now, close your eyes and clear your mind."

"Wot?"

"Try to think of nothing. Let your thoughts and memories flow freely, until there is nothing. Feel the world around you."

Even with those detailed instructions, he kept focusing on whichever story or battle came first, on any particularly awesome kill or one-liner. Then, he mentally screamed 'Zog off!' They went by faster, until truly nothing remained, as per usual. Then, he finally felt it. The breeze, brushing faintly against his thick hide, not even noticeable before. He felt the harmonic noises of several bugs not too far from his foot. The gob squig from two days ago still squirming in his mouth.

"Woorrrr, dis be intense."

At that point, she just burst out laughing, then looked back at the kaptin:

"And I think I know what else you want."

He snapped out of his trance:

"Oh, really? And wot dat be?"

"You wanted to ask if I wanted to go to Joe'z."

"Woah, you'z gud. And would ya'?"

"But of course."

"Gud."

They both got up and she presented her hand:

"Lead me, captain."

"Oh, all fancy like. Iz like dat."

Laughing in unison, they started descending the safest staircase on the Big Rok.


	13. Kruizzin' Round

**Kruizzin' Round **

Sometimes, a ship carries substantial amounts soil to other worlds. Sometimes, they are raided, only to be left to drift in space in disgust by whoever sought valuable goods. They sometimes get rammed by a space hulk afterwards. But the chance of a ship getting rammed in such a way, that it ends up right next to a ship transporting salt water, now that happens maybe once in five millennia.

Naturally, any inhabitants would wish to make use of such a rare event. In the case of the Big Rok, the most natural response was to install ridiculously powerful lighting in the area, set up some shops and get people to come to the Big Beach. However, as was naturally orky, there were always a few gits with differing ideas.

* * *

"First matey Snogrot!"

"Yeh, kaptin?"

"See anythin'?"

Snogrot looked around from his elevated position on the ship's mast. Why their metal ship needed a mast, no one knew, but it was there. He lifted his binoculars and, unlike the remainder of the crew, used them for things other than watching half-naked daemonettes and eldar sunbathing on the beach, separated by a concrete wall. Well, okay, he did glance in that direction, but only briefly. Other than the beach, the salty waters contained only a small, warpal island, covered in papa Nurgle's favourite vegetables, the ones that bit back.

More troubling was the monstrosity clinging to it like a metallic leech. Bristling with gun batteries, the battleship was about as large as their entire assembled fleet and had a small waaagh of freebootin' gits on board. The boss only liked records he himself achieved, though, so an order was given. Sink dat stuff, 'nuff said.

"Dey'z be right there, kaptin! No movin or stuff."

"Gud," he raised his orky speaka', "right den, listen up, ya gitz! Dem freebootaz are muckin' about 'ere, pesterin' da' beachgoeaz and just bein' a bunch of zogz. So let'z stomp 'em real gud and feed 'em to da' islandy bitz. Start yer enginez!"

Seven ships, five orky, two human, each with potent guns of its own, set off to meet the monster. For a while, it seemed the moment of surprise was theirs, but then, the batleship stirred and slowly left its dock. Countless green heads could already be seen roaring at its guns. Inexplicably, it also had several tall masts, with nothing but ladders hanging off them.

"Kaptin', it be movin'!"

"Fankz, Snogrot. Alright, boyz, circle it! Shoot some, then get ready for boardin'," he then raised his talky-majig and contacted the main oarz-boy, "Tekbrain!"

The mek was more than happy behind the steering wheel of their ship, utilizing the new, shiny grabby thing in his cybork arm, bought using a minor fraction of his Metul Punchiez earnings.

"Yeh, kaptin?"

"Position us fer da' big clobberin'. Keep on their side."

"Roger dat, kaptin."

A series of flashes erupted along the monster's side, as its wide array of guns opened fire. The air was filled with bullets, rokkits, primitive cannonballs and even unfortunate grots. Lobba' was the first ship to receive a major beating, but still kept on sailing, retaliating with a set of formidable cannons. Grinda' and 'Erda' attacked the other side of the behemoth, one with barrages of rokkits, the other used the most expendable ammunition around, grots. Fired from the fiendishly unreliable shokk attack guns, they re-emerged from the Warp inside of the enemy's armour, crew quarters, or even heads, always with devastating results. Vulcha' finally got close enough to unload its cargo, several squads of daredevils in the form of angry stormboyz, their jetpacks roaring louder than a legion of warp beasts, their choppas more than ready for some good old boarding action. Then there were the non-orky allies, Sea Devil and Aquamarine, comparatively small boats bristling with rapid-firing autocannons, their speed proving more useful than pure armour.

And then there was their own craft. 'Ard 'Ead. With a single command, Gorasho set things in motion:

"Tekbrain, rammin' speed!"

"Aye, aye, kaptin'!"

Snogrot managed to get off the mast just before the mek smashed a big, red, shiny button. He clung onto the bucket on his head, the best replacement for a helmet he had at the time, as the spectacle began.

The additional rocket engines that popped out of the sides of their ship were too many for most beings to count. Their cruising speed increased from 'Oy, dat'z not bad at all.' to 'Oh, zog, dis be too fast, slow down, slow down!'. The front of their ship, shaped like a thick spear, pierced through the larger ship's armour with a massive crash. Their mast snapped in half at the impact and flattened a few freebootaz into pulp.

As soon as he regained his footing, the kaptin shouted into the speaka' once more:

"Alright, ya slobz! Let'z get luggin'!"

With a battlecry, the polees boys, most of them in 'ard armour, spilled onto the enemy cruiser, choppin', stompin' and shootin' any git in their path. Gorasho lead the charge himself, missing every shot, but decapitating at least two gits with every swing of Bessy.

They charged towards a large open area, dominated by the trio of masts. A green horde was present, the different sides of boys fighting each other in a furious frenzy. In the middle of it all, a nob rampaged through the ranks, wielding a large, curved blade. A black hat was on his head, a skull and crossbones hastily attached to its front, upside down. Most prominent, however, was the large black beard he possessed, swaying majestically with each furious strike. Still had both eyes, though, unlike a proper freeboota'.

Gorasho shouted at the soon-to-be foe:

"Kaptin Squigbeard!"

"Ah," the other nob turned with a toothy grin, "kaptin Pain! Gud to see ya'! I was gettin' bored choppin' yer boyz up," he looked over at Bessy, the chain choppa's movements spilling blood onto any nearby object, "youz call dat a choppa'? Ain't nothin' speciul 'bout it. Try fightin' with some real metul!"

"Zog you," the Warp hath no fury like an ork whose weapon you had insulted. Looking around, Gorasho snagged a cutlass of similar qualities from a dead ork and sheathed his beloved Bessy, "youz wanna' fight old-timey style? Right then, come an' get zogged up!"

The surrounding orks made the wise decision of clearing some room for the two kaptins. Just as they prepared to charge, music, loud, orchestral, epic in scope, filled the air.

"Oh, not again."

"Wot da zog?"

Squigbeard pointed towards the island, where a small army of nurglites had assembled, each carrying a makeshift instrument and playing as if it was their last day on da' Big Rok.

"Dem smelly gitz always be playin' music. We'z tried shuttin' 'em up, didn't work."

"Right, uh," he scratched his scalp, "we gunna' fight now?"

"Dey'z not gunna' shut it fer a while. Let'z get luggin'!"

The kaptins charged and their blades met with a thunderous clang. Great prowess in propa' swashbuckling was shown as they duelled like big, green, oafish champions. Back and forth they pranced about, flattening any git unfortunate enough to get in their way. The fighting around them actually started dying down, as the two warring hordes started chanting their respective kaptin's name. Bets were almost immediately placed, using teeth knocked out during the previous brawl.

Squigbeard suddenly jumped to the nearest mast and started climbing up, Gorasho in hot pursuit. They continued their battle on the way up and especially once they reached the top, balancing precariously on its thin, useless limbs. The nurglite orchestra intensified, with trumpets being added to the mix.

"I gotta' admit," the freeboota' shouted, an inexplicable wind pushing his majestic beard to the side, "you'z not bad, Pain!"

"Betta' than you, dat'z fer sure!"

"Heh, maybez. But I'z got a secret weapun," he quickly disengaged from combat, and revealed a small trumpet of his own from a concealed pocket, "get a load of dis!"

He blowed on it, creating the most pathetic sound imaginable, worse than a grot's pistol and squeal combined. Gorasho almost laughed, but then he noticed it, far below. The sea itself was stirring.

The monster rose from the depths, massive beyond measure. A giant, round head, with a thousand small eyes all over, its maw big enough to swallow one of the human ships whole. Its teeth alone were the size of a propa' kan. A dozen appendages rose from the water soon afterwards, tentacular and fierce. One crashed down onto the deck below, flattening over a dozen orks. Squigbeard laughed as another of the tentacles gently pressed against the mast.

"Ya' like 'im, Pain? I'z call 'im Squiggiathan, Lord of da' Watery Bitz!"

"Zoggin' 'ell," he activated his talky-majig, "clobba' dat thing, now!"

"Squiggiathan can't be clobba'd, Pain! 'E'z da 'ardist squiggy there iz!"

Without warning, the freeboota' jumped onto the nearby tentacle and the other kaptin followed suite. They immediately assumed their fighting stances.

"Well, you'z ain't dat 'ard, Iz bet!"

"Let'z dance da' jig o' deff and find out, then!"

The epicness was too much even for the nurglites, as the kaptins duelled above the monster's gaping maw. Rokkits and grots flew through the air once more, this time aimed at the gargantuan abomination, while the massive brawl resumed below them. As the orchestra tried to intensify its music to match the spectacle, they literally started falling apart, their lungs bursting, their limbs flying in every which direction.

Squiggiathan did not seem to particularly care about the onslaught as one of its appendages almost casually split Aquamarine in half with a single strike. The kaptins duelled with ever-increasing ferocity, neither the better swordsman.

Ugu was busy chasing around a small squad of enemy orks, while Snogrot worked his brain to assess the situation.

"Bigga' squig... needs bigga' gun." was his brilliant conclusion.

For a moment, he turned on his orky sense, often only theorised by imperial scholars who constantly muck about with ork knowledge. The innate knowledge of where another ork would put something really, really killy. That sense, along with basic eyesight, led him to a sign. 'Supa' Mega Beamy Deff Gun of Deffy Killin'. Certainly seemed promising.

He set out to follow the signs, Ugu hot on his heels, chewing on a discarded leg.

Gorasho suddenly noticed a weakness in his enemy's tactical decision-making. No safety harness. With a toothy grin, he shouted:

"Oy, Squigbeard," he casually tossed away the lesser weapon and drew good old Bessy, "I'z jus' wanna' say dat I'z a cut above."

He immediately swung downward, cutting through even Squiggiathan's mighty scales. The monster roared in fury and thrashed its appendage, causing the old freeboota' kaptin to lose his footing, his last, shouted word was:

"Paaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiii-!" cut short as the squig-beast mercilessly chomped down on him.

"Yer old-timey choppa' suckz!" cried the kaptin, clinging onto Bessy, still embedded in the monster's flesh.

The monster grew furious, its faster movements finally sending the kaptin flying, luckily towards the giant ship. Even more luckily, right onto a group of freebootin' gitz, who were just muckin' about in terror. As he slowly got up, feeling a bit of pain in his back, he looked back at the monster, still very angry and very much alive.

A massive racket sounded to his right. He turned and his jaw fell. Part of the battleship had been unceremoniously shoved aside to make room for the biggest damned gun this side of the Warp. Sporting over a dozen haphazardly constructed barrels, each connected to an even more dangerous beamy generator, it was the most magnificent example of pure orky engineering. Snogrot waved over to him from the pilot sea and he waved back in an awed stupor.

The barrels discharged in unison, raining extremely killy, beamy deff upon the Lord of da' Watery Bitz, burning right through its scales and flesh, causing it to emit the most horrendous of roars. During its thrashing, it even managed to destroy the poor old 'Erda', complete with all of its remaining grot ammunition. A tragic waste.

The spectacle was not meant to last, as all of the great gun's barrels simply melted due to the sustained heat. But their job was done, as the abomination's final pathetic cries could firmly attest to.

* * *

Once its carcass was finally dragged to the beach, though, another surprise was witing for them. Well, lots of surprises. Hundreds of them. From the monster's ruptured belly emerged other, tiny squigs, no larger than the ordinary ones, each clumsily rolling around on the shore using its tentacles, being just plain adorable. The daemonettes and eldar took advantage of the situation, united for the first time in a common interest. To hug all the squishy things.

Gorasho looked at the scene with mixed feelings:

"Huh, cutez, I guezz. But doez dat mean we'z shot a mum? Worrr, dis day got grim and dark, ey?"

"I guezz, kaptin. But look on da' bright sidez, these thingz could be delico... delica... tasty."

"And I'z know just da' place ta' test dat out."

Joe was quite delighted that evening, and so was the clientele. Unexpectedly posh that night, considering where they were. He had even added a new fish tank behind the bar, so that the customer could see his meal was freshly and mercilessly slaughtered for the sake of mindless consumption. Worrr, this grim darkness is getting to me, too. A daemonette was busy just staring at one of the poor sea squiggies, who seemed to nervously return the gesture. The wailing of his kin probably didn't help him relax.

"And then, lotsa' dem daemony gurlz jus' took 'em home with 'em. Iz suppose they could be petz or something."

"I'd rather not think about what they intend to do with them," Miriana shuddered, "or their tentacles."

"Speakin' of tentaculz," Joe finally burst out of the kitchen with a good number of bowls, each filled with a peculiar liquid, "look at today'z speciul! Joe'z Sea Squig Supreme of Gud Tastez! Still workin' on da' name, but gud eatin'!"

Dismembered tentacles, bits of well-done meat, even the odd tiny eyeball. The farseer was the first to muster the courage and nibbled on one of the appendages. With a surprised look, she then just slurped the whole thing up like a noodle.

"This is delicious, actually."

The rest of the group dug in with reckless abandon, even Ugu, displaying an utter lack of empathy for any marine subspecies of his kind. What a black heart, in that one, undoubtedly tainted by the unspeakable horrors of... oh, Emperor, not again!

"Yeh, dis ain't bad at all," Miriana again loudly slurped up its entire length, "somethin' missin', though."

"Cream, kaptin?" Snogrot held a small bottle of the Rok famous White Cream of Creaminess, the finest of its kind.

"Oh, yeh, dat'll do!"

In a corner, a large group of daemonettes giggled at the display.

* * *

Elsewhere, within the confines of the Warp, countless Daemonettes were very, very busy. One could say they had their hands full, if they wanted to present a lewd joke in a punny, vaguely clever way.

Oh, sorry.

Had to balance the grim darkness, you know?


End file.
